The Road not Travelled
by bellaknoti
Summary: The Dalish return to Marethari after meeting the shemlen, so it is Junar who leaves the clan. Meanwhile, the Blight reaches the sheltered forest where Tamlen and Finnariel have been making their lives, threatening the entire clan with extinction.
1. The Face of a Friend

Finnariel sits next to Ashalle, peeling a leek. A basket with a handful of mushrooms, and some herbs and berries still left in it sits upon a stone next to her. Ashalle efficiently peels a dwindling pile of sweet potatoes. They smile, each intent on their jobs, in silent competition. Finnariel's basket is nearly empty, but a potato is quickly peeled at the pace Ashalle can move her knife.

A hand falls lightly upon her left shoulder a split second before she hears the murmur in her right ear. "Caught you." She jumps, letting out a startled squeak. He laughs softly as he rests his chin on her shoulder.

"Tamlen," she admonishes, her heart still racing. "It doesn't count," she protests, "We weren't even runni-" She turns her face too quickly and finds herself close enough that she can feel his breath on her skin. When did this begin, these things he does to her heart? She has hesitated too long, and he pulls back a little bit and arches an amused eyebrow. Then he grins.

"Guess what I've brought you."

She smiles back. "Hmmm... Is it... strawberries?" He shakes his head. "No. Oh! Is it... hmm... a new paring knife?" He shakes his head "no" again, and the impish twinkle in his eye brightens. "No? Aw. Okay, one more. Is it... rabbits?" His grin widens, and she knows she's guessed. "Rabbits!"

No one is better at pinning down the fast little creatures; he is the best archer in their clan. Finnariel throws her arms around Tamlen's shoulders. "Eee! Thank you!"

He produces a furry bundle as she sits back. "So, have I earned a place at your fire?" Inside the cleaned skins, there is a fair pile of cleaned, boned, and sliced meat.

Finnariel blushes and brushes her arm against his. "Oh, I suppose." She feigns a put-upon demeanour, but can't maintain it. He pokes her in the ribs and she giggles. Every evening, the same question, every evening, the same answer. Yes, of course.

She turns back to her basket to find Ashalle triumphantly dicing the last of her potatoes into the pot. She turns to Finnariel, smug. "Ah-ha, you get to do the washing," she teases.

"Oh, hey, not fair, Tamlen distracted me!"

Ashalle grins over her shoulder as she places the tripod over the fire. "Ah, dogs bark, but the caravan goes on."

Finnariel sticks her tongue out at Ashalle, then turns to Tamlen. "You're helping me," she says, shortly. He laughs. Time slows down. She can see the side of his face, the turn of his head, the breath of wind that pushes a lock of hair over his eye. His hand brushes hers as he reaches into the basket. He caresses the back of her hand with his own as he withdraws a handful of herbs. Her heart and breath catch at the same moment. The sun shining through the trees behind him blinds her.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The hillside is scattered with leaves. His face above mine, he smiles in the golden autumn sunlight. "Caught you." He brushes a lock of hair away from my face. His blue eyes catch light like a waterfall. "You have leaves in your hair, _lethallan_."

"And the sun on my face," I reply. He smiles again. Oh, his smile. He takes my hands and pulls me up to sit next to him. I am breathless and blushing. He runs his fingers through my hair, dislodging all the leaves and debris, smiling at me with all that I have always seen there, and so much more.

"You know, I don't really think of you as a friend any more." I blink.

"What?" I am wounded!

"It's true. Look, I have been working with Ilen. I made this for you." I look down, and in his hands he holds a leather-bound book. The cover is tooled with star-shaped flowers and a swirling pattern that reminds me of fern leaves. The paper inside is a creamy yellow, heavy enough for sketching, light enough that there are many, many pages within.

"Tamlen," I breathe. "It's beautiful. How can I ever thank you?"

"I know how much you love to draw and write, so I made this for you. Because... I have realized... I have found the woman I want to bond with."

The bottom drops out of my stomach, I can feel the blood draining out of my face. A goodbye present. I feel sick. I swallow hard.

He is startled by my reaction, and puts his hands to either side of my face. "Are you all right?"

"Uh... That's great, Tamlen..." I whisper, my voice suddenly missing. I think I'm going to cry. He is studying me intently.

"I thought you would be happy."

I force a smile. "I am. You deserve to have the life you want." I look away. "Who is she?" He is silent so long, I look back to see what is wrong. He is sitting there, completely thunderstruck. Gently, he reaches out and turns the book over in my hands. At first, I see nothing but the pattern. But the longer I look at it, the more it begins to look like language... and then... I see it. Our names, in elvish, intertwined and cleverly set within the pattern. My mouth drops open in surprise.

"Yes, of course, _you_. What did you think, that I would abandon you?" He kisses me, then, for the first time, and I am electrified by it. I kiss him back, tangle my fingers in his hair.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Watch your head," Tamlen murmurs, pulling her through a particularly dense copse of bracken and overhanging tree limbs.

"Where are we going? This path even mice would fear to tread," Finnariel protests.

She can hear his quiet laugh in the darkness ahead. "We're nearly there. Watch your feet! Four steps, straight up. Here, put your hands on my shoulders." She follows him, testing each step with her toe. When he stops, she rests her head in the hollow between his shoulder blades and presses herself to his back. She can hear his heart beat. He pulls one of her hands over his shoulder and kisses her palm.

"Just a little farther, _lethallan_," he whispers. Keeping her hand in his, he leads her forward. She knows when they leave the trees by the sudden wind on her face. She can hear the sound of a babbling rill cascading over stones. "Give me your boots."

"What?"

He laughs. "You'll understand in a moment, I promise." Obediently, she lifts her feet and lets him tug them off, her hands braced on his shoulders for balance. Soft grass tickles her feet. He fumbles at the sides of her skirt, and she jumps. He laughs again. She can feel the breeze on her bare legs. He leaves her hands entirely, and she reaches out, suddenly frightened. "Tamlen?"

"Down here. I'm just taking off my boots." His fingers brush her ankle.

He leads her forward again, across wet stones, then into the water. The water rises with every step. He stops her when it's just over her knee. He hooks her ankle with his own and pulls her foot forward until it rests upon a high step. "Up," he says, "Five steps." He grabs her other hand and she rises out of the water. She climbs the steps and feels fitted stone beneath her feet. He turns her by the shoulders, then she feels him behind her, his fingers in the knot at the back of her head.

His hands drop to caress her shoulders as the blindfold falls away. "Open your eyes, _lethallan_," he whispers in her ear. She shivers, half turning toward him, and he laughs. "Look."

Finnariel opens her eyes and gasps. The beauty spread out before her takes her breath away. They stand upon the remains of an ancient, white stone archway. A small waterfall burbles behind them, the water flowing around the base of the stones, reaching westward. The forest sweeps out to either side, as though to embrace the setting sun, the fading light painting the world in shades of orange, fuchsia, orchid and indigo. The brightest of the stars have begun to light the vault of the sky above them.

Tamlen presses against her back, wrapping his arms around her waist, and she leans her head back on his shoulder. "Oh," she breathes, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Thank you. How did you _find_ this place?"

"Following rabbits." She can hear the smile in his voice. They stand there in silence for long moments, watching the sun go down and the stars come out. As the last of the indigo descends on the horizon, he speaks again. "I spoke to Ashalle and the Keeper."

Her heartbeat speeds. "And?"

He laughs under his breath. "What do you think?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to the soft spot beneath her ear. She shivers and tilts her head to the side. His fingers twine with hers as his free hand slides up her side and across her shoulder.

She turns, then, and kisses him ardently. He wraps his arms around her, tangling his hand in her hair. At last, she turns her face aside, gasping, and lays her head upon his shoulder. She shakes with the overwhelming emotion as he enfolds her more gently in his arms. "So, you approve."

She laughs. "How long do I have to wait?"

"_We, lethallan._ And, a phase," he replies, and she can feel his smile against her cheek.

"So long?"

"I gather that Ashalle told the Keeper there was no reason for us to wait out a full cycle. She argued that one month more or less will make no difference to us."

"That's not what she said," Finnariel says, a knowing smile upon her lips.

"No." He laughs again. "I heard Ashalle yelled at her and said we weren't a couple of 'bumbling blushers'." He considers for a moment. "Well... _I'm_ not."

She giggles. "You've known longer than I have, Tamlen."

"Yes, my beautiful Finnariel, but I could see that you have felt it just as long as I have." This time, when he kisses her, it is a surrender. "Caught you," he whispers against her lips.


	2. Out of the Darkness

_"If you've been there, you should have proof."_

"Elvish? Written Elvish?"

"This sounds like a trap."

"You're right. Let's take this to the Keeper."

"She'll know what to do."

"And the shemlen?"

"They're too frightened to come back here. Let's go back to camp."

It is horrifying, how quickly their find unravels the lives at the camp. Marethari sends Fenarel and Junar down to where the shemlen found the ruin, but only Junar comes back, lifeless in the arms of a giant shem. The keeper labors for two days, and finally Junar comes around.

The story he has to tell chills the blood. Marethari sends others with him down to the ruin to try and find Fenarel, but it is no use. Junar leaves that afternoon; they all stand as one to see him go.

Finnariel stands with Tamlen, his arms linked around her waist. As the others disperse, she turns to him, fear writ plain across her face. "That could have been _us_, Tamlen," she whispers in horror. "That could be you, right now, leaving the clan with some strange shem."

He cups her cheeks in his hands, smoothing away the tears with his thumbs, and kisses her. "I know, I know." He folds her in his arms as she shakes, and presses his cheek to her hair. He watches the shem disappear into the woods with his clansman, and all he can think is that, if he hadn't listened to Finnariel and come back to camp, he would have touched it, too. He would have ended up the same as Fenarel.

There's no time to waste; they pack camp and head north that very afternoon. Finnariel walks with the aravels, carrying a basket full of plants and herbs on her back. All the clan is silent in the wake of their losses. Tamlen and their other two remaining hunters range far afield, and she worries for them, afraid of the forest for the first time in her life.

As they stop for the evening, the hunters re-materialize with clutches of small game and birds, and all the clan settles to eat. Tamlen joins her by the fire and shares his rabbit with her. "Keeper told Maren we'd set stakes at the northern falls."

"We're travelling for an entire phase?" He nods, matter-of-factly, stuffing a last piece of rabbit into his mouth. He rummages in his pack, still chewing, and produces a small loaf of bread. She holds it in the light of the fire, and recognizes Ashalle's best berry loaf. She smiles, delighted. "You saved one for me!" He grins, the firelight in his eyes. He is stuffing things back into his pack. She realizes he hasn't taken his boots off. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Marethari assigned extra guard tonight. I'm ranging north with the others to clear path in the morning. I won't see you until tomorrow night." She bites her lip.

"How much time have you got?"

"Only as much as it took me to eat,_ lethallan_; I have to go." He stops and looks at her, steadily, then takes her face in his hands. He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, her lips. He rests his forehead against hers. "Tomorrow night." Her hand rests briefly against his chest, his heart beat beneath her fingers, and then he is gone, before she even opens her eyes.

A familiar presence settles beside her. _"Sa'vunin abelas, da'len,"_ she murmurs, rubbing Finnariel's back. "But your Tamlen is strong. He will be back."

"Oh, Ashalle," Finnariel chokes, turning to her. "It's the most sorrowful day I've ever known." She cries on her elder's shoulder. "Everything has gone wrong all at once."

Ashalle sighs. "Not everything, _da'len_. You'll see." She pats the younger girl's back, then pushes her to sit upright. She tilts Finnariel's chin up and swipes away the tears. "Now," she says, her voice gone businesslike, "Spilled water is better than a broken jar, yes? And so we go. You are a full member of the clan, now, and you must square your shoulders and be strong. Come, something good may even fall from this - while your bonding may have been delayed, the northern falls are beautiful, a perfect place."

Finnariel wipes her eyes again on the corner of her sleeve and gives Ashalle a watery smile. With all that had passed over the last three days, she had completely forgotten that today was the day. She aches with resentment, that something dark and nasty had stolen so much, from both her and the clan.

The next day brings cause for celebration, as they cross paths with another clan's road. The two groups set down for lunch and trade. The early afternoon passes quickly, and regretful goodbyes are said on both sides as they part company.

Silent and hollow-eyed from exhaustion, Tamlen drops to the ground beside her that night with uncharacteristic heaviness. He winces and shifts, stretching painfully before finally settling against the hollow of the tree she set for her bed. She offers him a bowl of stew, the scent of leeks and roasted duck wafting toward him. She eats her portion slowly, trying to think of some conversational gambit to get him talking, but when she turns to speak, he has fallen asleep, the half-empty bowl propped in his lap.

He does not stir when she takes it from him and sets it aside. She shakes his shoulder and tries to wake him, but he is too exhausted to rouse. At last, she stands, and looks around the camp for help. All is quiet, however, and she is left to her own devices. After long deliberation, she kneels at his feet and tugs off his boots. She prepares the bed, retrieving all the top blankets out, then pulls him onto his side and rolls him into the hollow.

Finnariel stands there, watching him sleep, chewing her lip. It's not proper for them to sleep together in the same bed before they're bonded. But, by all rights, they should have been bonded yesterday. She yawns. At last, she decides that, since Tamlen is taking up her bed roll, she won't have enough blankets to locate herself anywhere else, and she has no idea where his bed was set anyway, so she may as well just lie down and try to sleep.

She shakes out the blankets and settles them over him. Then she looks at the place beside him and is practically paralysed with a curious hesitation, a trepidation she would never have felt, had he been awake and inviting her in. But here, in the dark, with no one else about and him asleep, it seems wrong, an intrusion. Finally, she determines that it might be alright if she just takes one of the blankets and props herself up against the tree at the other end of the hollow.

She settles herself against the bark, pulling her cloak and the blanket tightly around herself. She watches his profile in the darkness until she falls asleep.

A bright ray of dawn light pierces through the canopy of the trees and straight through her eyelid. She squints, the morning sun an unwelcome invasion, and turns over. She pulls the blanket back up to her shoulder and curls against the... Her eyes snap open as an arm comes about her. She sits upright suddenly, the blankets pooling about her waist. Tamlen groans. "Lie down, _lethallan_, you're warm, and it's cold," he mumbles. He pats the bed next to him, his head pillowed on his other arm. A chill breeze blows straight through her chemise, and she realizes he's right.

She lays down again, suddenly frigid to the bone, and shivers in his arms. He draws her to his chest, tucking her in under his chin, and pulls the blankets close about them. She closes her eyes and presses her cheek to his collar bone. Then she realizes he doesn't have his shirt on. And she's missing her dress. She starts, trying to pull away again. "Shh... easy there, little halla," he murmurs, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

"But- But- Your shirt- My dress- We aren't-" she protests, unable to finish a single sentence.

He laughs quietly. "It's freezing cold out there. Look, there's even frost on the edges of the leaves. There's no reason for us to turn blue when the solution is so simple." She can feel herself blushing.

"We're not bonded yet," she whispers, "We're not supposed to be sharing a bed."

He exhales shortly, the shadow of a laugh. "All right then, go," he suggests, adjusting himself more comfortably around her.

She feels the strength in his arms, the warmth of his chest and the skin beneath her cheek, the length of his body pressing against hers and the way she seems to fit so perfectly, just _here_. She sighs with warmth and contentment, and finally relaxes against him. "No."

_"Ma emma lath,"_ he whispers into her hair. She smiles.

"I love you, too," she murmurs, and closes her eyes.


	3. Learn to Sing

Merrill is surprised and slightly horrified to find Finnariel and Tamlen curled together in the same cot that morning.

They stand with bowed heads as they receive their lecture on proper behaviour from the Keeper, and Finnariel is pulled aside afterwards to be interrogated as to their activities. She is mortified to be forced to defend her virginity, repeatedly. After that, Marethari keeps Tamlen so busy that Finnariel never sees him.

Five days pass with interminably dull slowness. Finnariel loses herself in the monotony of chores, taking her turn at everything: brushing the halla, gathering edibles and fire wood, teaching the children, preparing food, carrying water. In all her free moments, she busies herself learning how to spin from their new weaver. All the clan's nerves are frayed raw by the constant vigil, and no one is allowed to travel alone. With the welcome addition of another archer from their cousins, the hunters are enough to work in shifts, but Finnariel still sees no sign of Tamlen.

At last, they draw alongside a quick-flowing river, and all the clan breathe easier. The following day, they reach the clearing where the Keeper intends to set camp. Finnariel bends her back to the hard labour of arranging the aravels and beating down paths.

She had hoped that, with the clan settling, she would see Tamlen again, but tonight, she sits by the fire exhausted and alone, again. At last, she sets aside the plate she has been holding in her lap and stares at the ground. How long will the punishment continue?

Ashalle appears next to her, after a time, and gently pulls her away. "Come on, _da'len_, you've been working too hard. Come have a nice cup of tea and rest." Finnariel follows silently, as she has been for much of the last few days. Ashalle smiles to herself as she takes Finnariel to her aravel and makes her sit down with a cup. Finnariel drinks it and soon feels drowsy; she falls asleep in Ashalle's aravel to the sound of heavy water cascading over rocks.

As the morning light steals across the windows, Finnariel wakes. Ashalle is sitting in a chair nearby, a cold cup of black tea at her elbow, a dress in her hands, with a mouthful of pins. She quickly stitches a button on, then stands and shakes it out. Setting the pins aside, she eyes the dress critically. The waist is finally small enough without puckering the fabric.

Finnariel watches her with interest. "Whose dress is that?"

Ashalle jumps. "Oh! You startled me! I wasn't expecting you to wake so soon, _da'len_." Finnariel stretches and smiles. "Come here," Ashalle says, "Try this on. It belonged to your mother."

Finnariel looks startled, but complies. The dark green velvet dress hugs her curves perfectly, flaring just below her hips into a full skirt. Ashalle smiles, tears in her eyes. She buttons up the back of the dress and ties the embroidered sash about Finnariel's hips. Turning to a trunk tucked away under the bed, she pulls out a necklace made of wooden beads, cleverly carved into the shapes of animals. "This... This also belonged to your mother, _da'len_, and now that you are grown, it is time for you to have it." She lays it across Finnariel's palms.

Finnariel slips it on over her head and lets it fall across her bosom. The construction of the dress makes it rather impressive, actually, and she smiles. "It's beautiful, Ashalle. Thank you, for this, for the dress, for everything." They hug. A clear, clarion note sounds above the chatter of the falls, and Ashalle straightens up.

"Quickly, now," she says to Finnariel, and turns the girl around.

"Quickly? Oh no. Is something wrong?"

Ashalle doesn't answer as she expertly brushes Finnariel's hair with a wooden comb, then sweeps it up deftly, securing it with the comb, so that it piles upon the top of her head and cascades down her back.

"Ashalle... Why are you fixing my hair?"

She grabs up another embroidered sash that matches the one Finnariel is wearing and slips it about the girl's head, covering her eyes and tying it behind.

"Hey!" she protests, "What are you doing? What's going on?"

"You'll see, very soon, _da'len_. Come." Ashalle takes her by the hand and draws her outside. Many pairs of hands reach out to her and turn her around and around until she has no idea where she is or what direction she is facing. Then her hands are guided to a pair of shoulders, and she is led forward. The roar of the falls grows louder, then softer. As it fades, she can hear the quiet singing of her clan.

Finnariel stands alone as the person in front of her draws away. She puts her hands out, uncertain, but no one comes to her aid. Several hands gently push her forward, encouraging her. Slowly, she takes a few tentative steps, her hands held out in front of her. The words of the song suddenly stand out, repeated, rising and falling, the melody sung in heartbreakingly beautiful rounds.

_"Because like roots we intertwine,  
Living in eternal embrace,  
Your happiness is also mine._

We join our long lives forever.  
With one accord, in every aim;  
Track and trail, we walk together.

Ageless, the bond that ties us tight,  
Before our kin and clan, we swear:  
Never shall we forsake its light."

She is electrified with sudden understanding. She's never witnessed a Bonding before, she didn't know the signs. Her heart stops. Today is _the_ day; now is _the_ moment. Tamlen is here. Never, since they were small, have they ever spent more than a single day apart; she aches for him. The realization of just how empty the last phase has been, without him, crashes in on her all at once.

"Sing!" someone whispers in her ear. Haltingly, at first, she begins the chant. Finding her way through the notes, at last she picks up the melody and joins her voice to the song. As her voice rises, the others quiet, until she can hear another, a voice she knows better than her own. She picks up her skirt and moves toward it, toward him.

They find each other by their voices alone. All her fear from stumbling blindly about is suddenly silenced with relief at the touch of Tamlen's hands. Their fingers intertwine. A silken cloth is thrown over their hands and tied loosely, binding them together. As they reach the end of the last verse, they realize they are the only ones left singing.

The silence rings like the aftermath of a tolling bell. Marethari's voice breaks the spell. "Even through darkness and doubt, you grow stronger for the partnership you have built, and in finding each other. Emerge now into the light of your life together, joined in the immortal bond that you must hold sacred above all others."

Hands at the backs of their heads release the ties of their blindfolds, and they blink, dazzled by the sunlight. Immediately, they are in each other's arms, kissing passionately, forgetting where they are for a moment. Cheers spring up from all around them.

As the entire clan comes up to give them hugs and wish them well, Finnariel and Tamlen awkwardly accept several gifts, as well: a large basket, a length of finely woven cloth, a pot of roasted vegetables. Last, Marethari comes to them.

"When we met with our cousins on the road, we also acquired two aravels. While you laboured to help our newest family to repair them, Tamlen, you also laboured for yourself, for one of them now belongs to the both of you." She smiles. "For your three-day, we have put it away from the clan, on the other side of the falls." Smiling, she hands Finnariel an iron key.

Finnariel looks at Tamlen, who is completely taken aback. They both hug the Keeper. "Thank you, Keeper, thank you so much," Finnariel says.

"You are most welcome. Enjoy your three-day," she says with a smile, before she and all the rest of the clan take their leave.

Tamlen smiles as he takes Finnariel by the hand. At last, she is his. So many years he has waited, waited for her to _see_ him, to see _herself_ as one half of a _we_. He had intended for her to walk her own path. He brought her the results of his hunt, he repaired things, made things, showed her places she never would have seen. But still, though he could see her heart turned toward him, her mind refused to see.

At last, he grew impatient, and made her the journal. He knew it was the right move when she became upset at the thought of him bonding with someone else.

He thinks now of that forbidden, stolen morning a phase ago, when she should have been his, but still was not, not then. He remembers the spill of her silken hair across his chest, and the warmth of her pressed to his side.

She is speechless when he pulls her inside their aravel for the first time. "It was just a shell, when they brought it," he says. She runs her fingers over the newly-created cabinets, taking in the clever carpentry with awe. He smiles, proud that she admires and values his work. He is watching carefully when she draws aside the curtain that separates their sleeping alcove from the rest of their living space.

He closes the distance between them, gently placing his hands at the curve of her waist. She jumps, and he laughs, softly. "It is only me, _lethallan_, who else?"

She laughs with him, and her shoulders relax. He knows how skittish she can be; this is why he always takes things so slowly with her. But just this once, he is tired of slow. His passion for her has been tamped down too many times, for too long. Now she is his wife, he finds his control slipping as the heady scent of her skin invades his senses.

All the reasons he had used not to touch her have been undone by the knots in the cord that binds them together. He cannot hold back, and he no longer wishes to.

"Finnariel," he whispers as he presses his lips to her neck. He slides his hands up her sides as she yields to him, tilting her head to the side. A soft moan escapes her as her breasts fill his hands for the first time. He cannot help but echo her; the mere sound of her desire for him makes his hands tremble.

He runs his hands down her belly and across her hips, untying the sash as he continues to kiss her neck, her shoulder. Then the dress gets in the way. She turns and kisses him, then, freeing his hands to work at the buttons down the back. She presses herself against him tightly, in a way they never dared to tempt themselves with before, and he tightens his arms around her, crushing her to his chest and bowing her back.

With the buttons freed to her waist, the dress slips off easily over her hips as his hands travel lower. She tugs impatiently at his shirt and he breaks away from her long enough to pull it off over his head. He pulls her back to him, unable to abide her absence for any longer, and shudders at the sudden heat of her skin against his. He moans, then, he knows he does, a low and hungry sound he's been holding back for years. She shivers in his arms and closes her eyes, her fingers working at the laces to his pants.

He lifts her easily and takes her to their bed, where they land in a tangle of limbs and kisses. His breeches lie forgotten in a heap next to the dress on the floor. He explores her skin's every detail as she writhes and keens beneath his hands. The obvious need in her voice pulls him tight as a bowstring, and he very nearly comes undone when her soft, velvety hand closes around his length. He grits his teeth as he allows her to explore him, trying to master himself for just a few more minutes.

When she crawls into his lap, he can wait no longer. Years of pent up desire drown him in overwhelming need. He pulls her legs around his waist and turns his head to capture her mouth. She kisses him with fierce abandon as he wraps his arms around her hips and guides her downward. She cries out as they touch, throwing her head back and quaking in his arms.

He takes the opportunity to kiss her breast, and she moans. She bucks when he takes a nipple into his mouth, and that single motion joins them. They both freeze, panting. He can not believe how incredible she feels, that tight, silken heat, and he pulls her closer. Her thighs tremble about his waist and she whimpers as he slides further within her.

She curls against him, wrapping one arm around his neck, and sobs. He is startled by her reaction and stops, but her head lifts and she turns her face to his neck. Her words are quickly whispered and more than half desperate. "No... no, please, no, don't stop, Tamlen, Tamlen, oh please, don't stop." She sounds like she is crying, but when he moves again, there is no mistaking the grip of her desire, and he moans for her.

She cries out again and again, her fingers flexing against his back, and he tries to remain steady for her as she writhes and shudders in his lap. He shifts his arms to put one hand under her back, trying to support her, and this brings them closer together. They both cry out then, as the ecstasy washes over them. Within moments, she is arching away from him again, but he holds her fast, and as the spasms rock her from within, he finds his own release.

She collapses against him, quaking, and he gathers her into his arms. He leans against the wall, exhaustion getting the better of him. He runs his fingers through her hair and kisses her shoulder. _"Ma emma lath, Finnariel,"_ he whispers.

_"In emma lath ma revas, lethallin,_ my Tamlen," she murmurs, "I'll love you forever."


	4. Vir Adahlen

Finnariel sits patiently in the bracken next to Tamlen, waiting for her chance. She has been practising for months, trying to reach even a measure of his fluidity with the bow. Today, her quarry is winged. Her patience is about to pay off; she spies a small flock of quail bobbing along the forest floor.

She raises her bow slowly, timing the shifting of the wood under her hands to the natural swaying of the plants around her, as he taught her. Tamlen raises his bow in unison. She exhales, centring herself, eyes on the quarry. She looses the arrow and pins one to the ground, straight through the neck. The rest of the birds take flight, and Tamlen brings down one on the wing, his shot cleanly piercing it through the head.

He grins. "You are getting good, _lethallan_," he says, and kisses her. She blushes, still, every time he does that, even though it has been nearly six months since they bonded. He stands and retrieves the birds. He pulls their arrows out and examines them carefully.

"Still not as good as you," she comments, brushing off her breeches.

He flashes her another grin. "I won't hold it against you." He ties the birds' feet together and drops them into his sack.

Coming up next to him, she whispers, "No? And what _would_ you hold against me, then?"

It is an entirely different smile he gives her, then, and she blushes again. He laughs quietly, pleased by the reaction he elicits. "Come, I have some snares set up in a rabbit run near here. We should check them, then be on our way; it's going to be close to dark by the time we get everything cleaned and make it back."

She follows him to the little paths that she still cannot quite distinguish from the plain forest floor, not yet. As he works to free one of the furry little critters from its noose, Finnariel looks around and sees a strange, furry growth hanging off a nearby tree.

"Tamlen?"

"Hmm?"

"What's that?" She points, and he turns to look. His brow furrows.

"Hmm... I don't know. It wasn't here yesterday evening."

"I've never seen it before."

"Me either." They both approach the strange, white mass.

"It almost looks like... cobwebs..." A dawning horror grips her, but it is too late. Giant spiders are descending from the trees on all sides of them.

Tamlen lets loose half a dozen arrows before they hit the ground, and Finnariel manages four, but they seem completely unfazed. She draws her daggers as he draws his sword, their bows dropping to the ground. They are doing well, she thinks. She manages to kill one by leaping upward and driving her blades deep into the crack in its carapace, right behind its head. Tamlen hacks at another, gravely injuring it.

But then everything goes horribly wrong. One of the spiders spits web at her, and she is too slow to dodge it. She is tangled in place, trying to free herself of the sticky strands. She is not fast enough. The other healthy spider circles around behind Tamlen, clicking its poisoned jaws and hissing.

"Tamlen!" she screams, but it is too late. The spider leaps upon his back, knocking him down. She can hear the terrible sound of it crunching on his leathers. She fights her way free of the confining strands and charges the spider on Tamlen's back. She knocks it to the side, her daggers piercing deep into its abdomen. Sticky, nasty-smelling ichor sprays her. She is so angry; she pulls her blades out and stabs it again, and it shrieks, curling over on its back.

She turns around to see Tamlen staggering to his feet. Blood runs freely down his back, and a terrible, cold fear pierces her heart. He raises his sword, but the one who caught her now catches him in its web, and he is stuck in place, struggling. She runs for the injured spider, trying to cut down one more threat, and dispatches it quickly with a few quick thrusts to the face.

Tamlen, having freed himself from the web, now faces off with the last spider, but she can see that something is wrong. He shakes his head, as though trying to clear his eyes, and his sword wavers as he stumbles. He is able to set himself, though, as the spider charges him, and it impales itself on his sword before she can reach them. He is no longer quick enough to get out of the way of its snapping mandibles, however, and it gets in one last bite before falling to the ground and curling up, just like all the others.

Finnariel runs toward him as he sways and falls. She reaches his side and takes his hand. His grip is frighteningly weak. She smooths her hand over his brow, and his face is sweaty, pale, and cold. He looks up at her with delirious eyes. "I'm sorry... _lethallan_..."

Her tears fall on his face. "Shh, shh, don't be sorry, everything is going to be okay. I'm going to get you home, Marethari will know what to do. You're going to be fine," she babbles. He tries to smile for her, but he slips into unconsciousness. She covers her mouth with her hand, paralysed for a moment by her horror and fear.

Then she leaps to her feet and looks around, wildly. She retrieves Tamlen's sword from the spider and heads over to a couple of saplings nearby. "Sorry," she whispers, and then hacks down the trees with it. She shaves the branches off and hacks off the slender ends. Checking in the hunting bag, she finds that Tamlen has a fair sized ball of twine, and thanks Andruil. Working as quickly as she can, she lashes the trunks together in a triangular shape and the branches across it to carry him.

Falling to her knees beside him, she unbuckles his belt and tugs it out from under him. He rouses as she jostles him, and opens his eyes. She puts her palm to his cheek. "Stay awake, stay awake, I'm going to get you out of here. I need you to help me get you on this thing." She drags it over and rolls him onto it; he pulls weakly at the frame, and they manage to get him more or less straight upon it. Using both her belt and his, she lashes him to the travois. She tucks their weapons in, weaving them amongst the branches, then picks up the ends.

"Mythal, protect us, give me strength enough to get us home," she whispers. It soon becomes a chant as she trudges forward. The cot is heavy, and the going is slow. She soon realizes that they will be trapped out here in the darkness. After about an hour, they reach the river, and she sets him down. His face is drawn, and he has developed a fever. She dashes over to the water and fills both of their canteens.

"Tamlen," she whispers, patting his face. He opens his eyes, but cannot focus on her. She puts her arm under his head and tilts it up a bit. "Drink." When he falls unconscious again, she uses the rest of the water to wet down his face and hair, hoping it will cool him. She fills up again, then picks up the ends of the stretcher and trudges off. Her arms begin to ache as the light pales. This is when Tamlen starts to mumble.

She stops to give him more water, to wet him down again. He no longer responds to her, though he calls out her name sometimes, his voice so broken that it brings her to tears. She tries to pick up her pace. Her shoulders are burning, her arms numb from the elbows down.

The sun fades away, plunging the forest into darkness. Stop, water, water, trudge.

The forest goes entirely silent, and she stops, dread filling her. Her arms are too leaden to fight. Tamlen is prone, feverish, delirious, and covered in blood. A howl breaks the silence, chilling her to the bone. It is so close. _Mythal protect us._

She forces her legs to move, _move!_ The end of the travois bounces over the ground, and Tamlen moans. She can hear crashing in the woods around her, and she stumbles out of the forest onto the shore. Not stopping, she heads straight into the water. She hauls the handles up to her shoulders as the water deepens past her waist. She can hear his laboured breathing at her back. The wolves stalk her along the bank.

She walks in the river for a long time, pulling Tamlen along behind her, and his breathing eases. Eventually, the wolves decide she's too much trouble to get to, and wander off in search of easier prey. She wades over to a large rock and pulls him up so she can see his face. He is cooler, but still delirious. "Tamlen," she tries, and his eyes flutter. She gives him another drink, then pulls him back into the water. If it keeps his fever down, she doesn't care how it freezes her legs. At least in the river, he is lighter, and it is easier for her to move.

She has to leave the safety of the water when the speed picks up; she knows she must be getting close to the waterfall. She slogs onto the bank, shedding water everywhere, and her legs lose strength completely. She collapses to her knees, shaking. _Mythal give me strength._

She drags herself to her feet, taking up the cot again, and moves forward along the bank until she reaches the top of the falls. She can see the fires of her clan, far below, little motes of light twinkling in the darkness. She aches to call out to them, but the roaring of the falls will drown out any sound she makes.

Turning away, she follows the line of the ridge as well as she can until she reaches a switchback that will take her down. Her body is shuddering with the cold. Her hands scream to release, aching with the torn skin that was once blisters, and the handles are slick with her blood. Her joints begin to creak, and she wonders distantly if her arms are going to dislocate before she reaches camp. _Mythal... protect us..._

The faintest of glows, shining through the trees, makes no impression on her numbed mind. It means nothing. Step, drag, step, drag. All that is left is forward. Step, drag, step, drag. _Mythal..._ Her legs give out, so she continues forward on her knees.

She is suddenly surrounded by hands, faces, voices. Someone is wailing. She shakes her head, trying to move forward toward the glow. They take her burden from her, and she wants to fight, but she cannot; her arms will not obey her, her legs will not straighten. As the world tilts itself sideways, she realizes: that high, thin scream, is her.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

She is being carried. Her head is upside down. Voices close around her. The light is bright.

Worried voices. Someone touches her face. _Tamlen_...

She is lying down. The stars shine in the darkness between the treetops. Someone is touching her hands.

"Tamlen," she whispers; her voice has deserted her. A face swims into view, but she cannot focus on it. She doesn't understand their words. "Tamlen..." A palm to her cheek presses her face to the side, and she sees someone else, the shape of the tattoo on his cheek, a profile she knows so well. She tries to reach for him, but she can't move her arm.

She whimpers, feeling the tears rolling out of her eyes, and strains toward him, sobbing. Someone pushes their cots together, takes his hand and slips it under hers. She shudders with relief.

The sun is blinding, and she blinks. She aches like she's been stampeded by a herd of halla and then thrown over the falls. She cannot feel her hands. She turns her head with great effort. "Tamlen," she breathes. His eyes flutter, and his head rolls to the side; he looks at her, those blue eyes she knows so well, and she smiles.

"We nearly died."

"_Lethallan_," he murmurs. He trails his fingers along her arm, and it makes her shiver, which brings on a whole new world of pain. She would scream, except her voice is missing. Merrill is quickly there, tipping a cup of tea to Finnariel's parched lips.

"Tamlen, she's very hurt. She crawled into camp in the middle of the night with you on her back. Her arms are so close to being broken. Be gentle with her. How far away did you roam?"

"She hurt herself like that, just bringing me here?" His voice is agonized, and Finnariel wants to smooth it away, but she cannot reach him.

"_Vir adahlen... Vir lath sa'vunin, Tamlen..._ It is enough..."

"_Ma serannas, lethallan."_ He says something else, but his voice fades away.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finnariel sits on the shore of the lake at the base of the falls. Bandages swath her arms from just below her fingers all the way up to her shoulders, and her hands lie limply in her lap. She turns her head as she hears a footfall behind her, and sees Tamlen with two bowls. He sits next to her and hands one to her.

"It is time to try, _lethallan_."

Slowly, she flexes her hand, then gingerly picks up the fork. Her fingers curl around it awkwardly, but she gets hold of it. She spears a piece of apple and brings her hand toward her mouth. Her arm begins to tremble as she folds it, and he places a hand on her elbow to steady her. She struggles to pull her arm up, and is rewarded, at last, by a mouthful of apple. She gratefully relaxes again, her arm exhausted by the effort.

"That is much, much harder than it has any right to be." He laughs and takes her bowl, combining it with his own. He sets aside the extra bowl and fork, and slides in behind her so he can lean over her shoulder and feed both of them at the same time. She sighs and leans back against him. "Have I told you that I love you?"

"Hmm... you might've done."

"Well, remind me later, maybe I will." He laughs in whisper, and kisses her ear. She turns her face and catches his lips. "We are very lucky you know."

"Ah, _lethallan_, it is _I_ who is lucky. Without you, my life would have been empty, and very, very short."

"And dull. You forgot dull," she teases, a twinkle in her eye. He laughs.

"_Ma emma lath, Finnariel_."

"Mmmm... I will never get tired of that."

The bowl of honeyed apples lies forgotten on the ground next to them for a very long time.


	5. Vir Bor'Assan

Vir Bor'Assan _(Bend, but Never Break)_

**Warning: contains a non-consensual situation**

It is a spring close to flood as the sky pours rain upon the forest like the tears of a mourning lover. In the intervals when the rain abates, a fog blankets all, so thick you could choke on it. Because it is easy to get lost in such a haze, Marethari tells everyone to always travel in pairs

Finnariel's arms have healed almost completely, but she still finds them weakening on her at the worst times. She tries to content herself with spinning and meal preparation, but Tamlen can feel her restlessness. "I hate feeling like I'm not useful," she frets one night, as they lie awake in bed.

He kisses her forehead. " 'Useful' is not the only measure of whether a person is worthwhile," he reminds her. She smiles, curling closer in to his shoulder.

"Tomorrow, I am going to ask the Keeper to let me go out again. I need to get out of camp, lengthen my stride." Marethari insists that she not be the one to carry the basket, and Finnariel agrees readily. Her relief is obvious, and, for a phase, Tamlen's worries for her lessen as she begins to smile again.

She parts ways with him after breakfast, he, to the hunt, and she, to gather herbs and edibles. The day is clammy and filled with that thick, muffling fog.

Tamlen returns to camp with a clutch of rabbits right before preparations for the evening meal have begun. He gives his share to the community pot, then goes in search of Finnariel, but he does not find her. "Merril," he says, catching the assistant Keeper's sleeve, "Have you seen Finnariel?" The more people he asks, the more head shakes he gets. She should have been back hours ago.

"I saw her with Traleia this morning," Maren tells him. It only makes sense; she has been working with the weaver for cycles.

"Which way did they go?" Maren points, and Tamlen begins heading that direction. He runs across Pol on the way across the camp. "Come with me," he says shortly, and the city's child falls in behind him. About a mile outside of camp they find Finnariel's basket on the ground, the food scattered. Tamlen studies the area, reading the signs of a struggle. Big, booted feet overwhelming the women, two of the prints heavier as they moved away.

Perhaps they imagined that they were being careful, that their trail could not be followed, but it looks clear as a road to Tamlen's hunter's eye. "Pol," he says softly, crouching down to touch the soil where a print has been left. He tests its temperature and moisture level, trying determine how long since they passed. "Go back to camp and gather our archers and warriors, on my authority. Make sure Rafflin is among them. I'm going on ahead. I'll leave mark if necessary. Bring them as quickly as possible; they're both in mortal danger." He looks up sharply as the city elf hesitates. "Run!" he snaps, and the other man bolts.

Tamlen rises and begins to stalk his prey.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Traleia folded almost immediately, and lies weeping on the ground, her shackles weighing her arms, preventing her from standing straight by the chains that connect to her ankles. Finnariel won't give them the satisfaction of her tears. For this, they have decided to punish her. Her shackles are attached to a tree, her arms stretched straight above. Her toes barely touch the ground, and they've stripped her naked.

She has been listening to the slavers' talk. The wagon has been delayed or lost in the fog, was supposed to have arrived hours ago, and there are more of her people inside. She silently thanks Mythal again for this providence; it gives the hunters of her clan time to find them. Her barely-healed arms burn from the strain, and she works hard to maintain a proud, stone visage. After hours of waiting, the guards are becoming restless.

"We should be moving. Their hunters could find us."

Finn takes grim satisfaction in the fact that they fear her clan. They _should_.

"Nah. They'll never find us in this fog." Finn snorts. She knows their trail will be easy to read.

One of the men comes back to check on them, and takes obvious pleasure in the fact that Traleia is so undone. "Awww, poor little knife-ear." He grabs her by the chin, turning her face upward, and laughs at the terror in her eyes. "You're going to _like_ Antiva," he says, a leer on his face. "They pay very highly for Dalish whores." When she whitens and begins to shake, that sickening grin spreads ever-wider. "Ah, are you worried about that? Don't fret, little girl, you'll have plenty of time to get used to it before we get there."

"Leave her alone!" Finnariel shouts at him.

"Ah, now, don't you worry. You're next." He laughs at her and slaps her thigh, hard, and she knows that her mask has cracked.

He turns back to Traleia, who screams as he seizes the chains binding her limbs, and drags her off. She kicks and fights, and the slaver reaches down, casually slapping her hard enough to make her lip bleed. "Quit makin' me hurt you!"

Finnariel fights with her own chains, but her arms just aren't strong enough to do her any good. It's all she can do to just keep her toes on the ground.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but nothing can block out the sounds of Traleia's torture. A scream, the sound of hard impact, followed by keening. "No, no!" A slap, and then another. Sobbing. A struggle. Another hard impact, followed by silence. Men's dark laughter, and then Traleia's sobbing, pain-wracked moan that goes on and on, punctuated by short, shrill little screams. More laughter. A scuffle over who is to go next, and then: "Let's just get the other one; she'll need breaking before we can sell her, anyway."

"Nah. Leave her there. She's already tied up; it'll be easier to do her on the tree." More laughter.

Heavy fear grips her as she sees the shape of one of the shem emerging from the fog. His smile turns her stomach. His hands are bruising as he crushes her breasts. His breath stinks in her face, and she turns it away in revulsion as he licks at her neck. But, oh no, he doesn't like that. He grabs her jaw in his hand and forces her face to him. He mashes his lips against hers, forcing his disgusting tongue into her mouth. She bites his tongue as hard as she can, and he rears back with a shout. Her satisfaction is short-lived, as he hits her hard enough to bring stars to her eyes.

"You fucking knife-eared _bitch_! Oh, ohhh, heh, so you like _biting_, eh?"

He sinks his teeth into her breast, hard enough to bruise, and she draws a deep breath. He leaves his marks all over her breasts and stomach, and she holds her breath, bites her own tongue, drawing blood, just to keep from screaming. He growls, obviously displeased at her lack of reaction. She looks at him, still defiant, and he smacks her again. Her head knocks against the tree, and she lets escape an involuntary whimper.

"That's right, bitch. I'll make you scream."

He bites the inside of her thigh, hard, and this time she does shriek. There is that ugly laugh again, and she can feel a little trickle of blood run down her leg. She rolls her lips in and bites them as he shoves his fingers inside her.

"Ohh... you're so tight, aren't you. You ain't never had a _real_ man before, I can tell." He laughs again. He's close enough that she can bring her knee up sharply, and she lands a blow directly between his legs. When he bends at the waist with a cry, she kicks him in the face, then shoves him over by the shoulder. She shudders with revulsion.

He crawls up to his hands and knees and she notices with grim satisfaction that he spits out a wad of blood and a tooth. If this is going to happen, she's going to make sure it costs him. He is wary of her now, and when he gets closer to her this time, he grabs her knees and hauls her legs up off the ground. She shrieks again as her arms take her full weight. She kicks and struggles, and, though her legs are strong, the agony in her arms makes it nearly impossible, as every movement pulls on them in stabbing waves. He folds her up and pins her against the tree to fumble with his laces.

Her stomach rolls as she realizes she is trapped. "Tamlen," she begs, her voice breaking. The man laughs at her again.

"Your Dalish gods can't help you now," he sneers. She turns her face aside again as he manoeuvres himself in front of her and readies himself. _I will not scream, I will not scream, I will not scream..._

.o.o.o.o.o.

The shemlen are ridiculously easy to find. Their path through the woods may as well have been marked with red paint. They would have been easy to find, even if the screams hadn't drawn him.

He creeps through the bracken on a hill above the site where they have made their camp. There are eight of them. Such brave men, needing so many to subdue just two.

_Vermin._

He can't see Finnariel, but he does see what they are doing, and it sickens him. Rafflin silently appears next to Tamlen, and he points. Rafflin's mouth sets in a hard line. He nods, and begins to motion in hunter's speak: "We will hunt the men who are grouped," his hands say, "You find your woman."

He nods, and circles the camp, trusting in their best warrior to make these shemlen's lives short. He is horrified by what they have done to Finnariel, and a murderous rage begins to roil in his stomach as he takes in the bruises on her body, on her face.

Tamlen aims carefully at the man who is violating his wife. His hands tremble with the force of his fury, and he breathes deeply, trying to steady himself. If his misses his shot, either Finnariel will take his arrow, or the man will be able to complete his action. He blinks, slowly, centring himself.

He looses the arrow.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Finnariel hears a squelching sound, and a fine, warm spray splatters the backs of her thighs. Her legs are suddenly freed, and she lands heavily against the tree, the tug on her arms making her cry out. Thinking that her scream means the brute has been successful, one of the other men laughs and cheers on the one who is now lying dead at her feet, an arrow through his throat. An arrow with fletching she recognizes. A grim smile spreads across her face.

Traleia's moaning cuts off in favour of quiet weeping, and the other men suddenly cry out in alarm. She listens as the men shout and swing at shadows; she is proud of the hunters of her clan, how silent they are. She listens as the slavers' voices break off, one by one, until the only sound left is Traleia's keening and the dragging of chains.

She is filled with overwhelming relief as Tamlen emerges from the mist a few moments later. He immediately lifts her by the hips, taking the weight of her, and she wraps her legs around his waist, grateful. He reaches up, a key in his hand, and releases her shackles. She shrieks again as her dead arms fall to her sides. Tamlen wraps his arm around her waist and takes his cloak off with his other hand, wrapping her in it.

"There are more," she pants. "They're slave-takers. They got bored waiting for the wagon; said there were more of us inside. We're not the only clan they've stolen from."

Rafflin appears at his side, and Tamlen looks at him. The violence in his eyes makes the warrior nod grimly. "Is Pol with you?"

"Yes."

"Let's get the women back up to the blind on the hill, and set Pol over them. We may not have much time."

.o.o.o.o.o.

The slavers' wagon rolls into the clearing. It is pulled by two horses, driven by a man and a woman, and accompanied by six men armed to the teeth.

A quail trills in the brush to one side of the clearing. A moment later, a finch gives song from a tree across the way, followed by a robin on the top of a hill. Tamlen whistles back, another finch, perched above the wagon with a perfect view of the back of the drivers' heads. All four archers in position.

The chatter of a fox sounds from behind a blind; the hunters are ready. A sparrow's call, the signal to loose the arrows. Tamlen quickly takes down both the drivers of the wagon to prevent it from leaving, his arrows taking them through the backs of their necks. All the warriors sprout arrows, and are suddenly to arms. "The Dalish," one of them cries in alarm. Tamlen smiles like a wolf.

"You should have thought about that before you came here, vermin," he calls, and when one of the warriors looks up in his general direction, he sends an arrow through the human's eye. "Did you think you could come into the very heart of our lands, and not face the consequences?" He succeeds in distracting a couple more. One, he is able to drop the same way as the first. The other takes a shot to the ear, and falls sideways.

The remaining shem panic and retreat into the brush, as expected, only to be met by Rafflin and the other warriors. Tamlen and the rest of the archers continue to pelt the slavers with arrows, assisting the fighters when necessary, pinning the intruders to the ground or setting their bolts through slots in their armour.

The battle is embarrassingly short for the shemlen.

Rafflin is pulling the bar on the back of the wagon as Tamlen climbs down from his perch, and ten women, all in various states of dishevelment, emerge, blinking, into the daylight. Many bear the signs of having been beaten. All are spooked by the men surrounding them, even though they are all Dalish.

Rafflin has Pol bring down Finnariel and Traleia. "_Aneth ara_, sisters," Finnariel says, her nakedness showing the marks of recent events. "We are still among our people. These men are the hunters of my clan; we are safe now. Please, come with us back to our camp, so we can find comfort." She simply turns, then, and walks away toward the encampment.

The journey is long, and everyone is footsore, particularly those of them without boots. When they reach the camp, the women are greeted with open arms, brought to the fires, fed, clothed, accepted. Some are still too shocked to respond at first, but, surrounded by their sisters, they begin to thaw, little by little. Keeper Marethari is ready to fell trees with her teeth. Merrill is tasked with finding the visitors all that they need, while Tamlen and Rafflin fill her in on the day's events.

"How are these shemlen able to come into our forest so readily? What has happened in their lands that such criminals would be able to traverse freely? This sickness we lost Fenarel and Junar to could be spreading, making things more unpredictable for us. We must be on our guard. What have you done with the bodies?"

"We left them for the beasts," Rafflin replies.

Marethari rubs a finger across her lip, then says, "No... Go back for them tomorrow and haul them up into the trees, so that nothing will ever grow upon them." The worst punishment for the dead: to take their contribution to the land away from them. Their bones would be picked clean, their remains scattered, no permanent mark on the life of the world.

.o.o.o.o.o.

During the next phase, hunters from other clans come, following the tracks of the slave-takers' cart, and the women who were taken are able to return to their homes.

Finnariel paces the camp angrily, resentful of her physical state and general inability to perform some of the simplest tasks. On the third night, Tamlen catches her by the waist as she strides past their fire again, pressing himself behind her. She shudders and shakes her head. "No, no," she murmurs, a thread of panic in her voice. "Don't, you can't, I feel disgusting." Tamlen starts back, alarmed by this development. He knew that she had been coming to bed completely exhausted, falling asleep immediately, but he never imagined she could be feeling this way.

She tries to wriggle free, but he holds her closer. "You could never be," he whispers in her ear, "Not to me, not _ever_."

She begins to shake, and her voice is thin when she says, "I have his marks all over me." Tamlen feels a stir of that rage within him, but now is the worst time to give voice to it. He turns her around and looks in her eyes. When she does not pull away, he traces the line of her tattoo, the sinuous curves across her eyebrow, the three points that curl down her cheek. She closes her eyes, her face the picture of agony, and it hurts his heart.

"Finnariel," he whispers, "Don't let him take _us_ away from you." He runs his thumb over her lips, and she softens, so he leans in and kisses her, soft as whispers. She whimpers and trembles, his wild halla, always on the edge of bolting, but she stays, so he steps closer, until he can feel the warmth of her against his chest. He runs his fingertips down her back, and she sags against him with another whimper, finally returning the kiss. He wraps his arms around her and holds her as the kiss becomes sobbing upon his shoulder, but he can feel that some tightness within her has given way.

"Tamlen," she whispers, when her tears have subsided.

"Hmm?"

"There's something else." His brow furrows. "It's not just that, it's... I meant to tell you that night, but everything happened, and... I can't..." She shakes her head, and she looks so stricken, he becomes even more worried.

"What is it? What could be so terrible?"

"All I could think about... I was so scared... Tamlen, it's been six phases since I felt the pull of the moon... and he... he put his _hands_ on me..." She misreads the shock on his face, and bursts into tears again. "I _knew_ you would think I'm disgusting!" she wails.

His eyes widen, and he grabs her as she tries to pull away. "No! No, Finnariel, no, that's not it at all!" He hugs her tightly, burying his face in her neck. "By the Creators, _lethallan_, do you know how blessed we are?" His hand strays lower, and he caresses her belly. "It just proves how strong you are, that this could still be true after all you've been through. I have always loved your strength. I have always loved _you_."

She looks up at him, a watery smile playing across her face. "_Ma vir emma lath_, Tamlen," she whispers, and he smiles, runs his fingers across her cheek again.

This time, when he kisses her, she doesn't pull away.


	6. Invasion

It is the middle of the night when suddenly a chorus of birds erupts from the trees all around the camp. Finnariel sits up, finding Tamlen missing from their bed. She dresses quickly, noticing with mixed feelings that her breeches are suddenly too tight. She settles for rolling the waist down and quickly shoves her feet into her boots. She grabs her knives, though she isn't good for very long if she ends up having to use them.

She runs to the central fire, where everyone is gathering. The hunters come out of the woods at a dead sprint, shouting for everyone to find cover, to climb trees, to _run_. An ominous growling comes from the southern wood. Rafflin stalks past her, his hands busy with hunter's speak, constantly whistling or chattering to the others to get everyone in position quickly, repeating the same instructions as he passes groups of people. She understands it: there are many invaders, not all of the outlying scouts made it back, archers to the trees, hunters and warriors to gather the clan, guard the route to the falls.

Her brothers push the clan toward the waterfall and the caverns behind it. People begin scrambling up the rocks, carrying everything they can get their hands on. Finnariel looks around wildly, trying to determine if there is anything she can do.

The growling resolves itself into a thunder of marching, howls and cries of beasts, inhuman shrieking and the sound of the land being torn up. She looks behind her, sees her people still struggling to get up the narrow pathway to safety.

She draws her weapons, an ominous feeling washing over her. It sounds as though an army is coming through the woods; they are carrying torches, the glow growing brighter by the moment. There's no way they can possibly defend against so many. Their only hope is retreat, but they are coming so fast, there's also no way everyone is going to make it in time. Finnariel gasps as the first twisted thing comes shambling out of the forest, an axe in its hands.

"Mythal protect us, Dirthamen show us the way; Falon'Din protect our fallen, Elgar'nan guide our blades," she prays, and sets herself as the thing begins to charge. An arrow pins it to the ground a mere handful of steps before her; she quickly strikes out with her blade, slashing its throat.

She sees a movement out of the corner of her eye, and spins to face it. Rafflin is in the middle of a swarm of them, not having been able to reach the pool in time. Finnariel wades into the battle, whirling so quickly that three of them fall to her blades by the time she reaches him. They stand back to back as they move toward higher ground.

"Get up to the caverns," Rafflin shouts.

"I'm no longer a warrior? I've got two good blades!" she replies, hacking into a grunting thing that spews black blood all over her. "There aren't enough of us to hold the line! I'll be fine! You _need_ me, brother!"

"It's not _you_ I'm worried about, sister!" He spins in front of her, shoving his shield against a creature that would have caught her across the belly, and she suddenly feels sick. The battle is too loud, the air is too hot with their stinking breath, their burning, foul-smelling blood all over her, all over the ground. She swallows hard and shoves down the nausea; this is no time for weakness. Rafflin puts his back to hers again, and pushes against her, steering her toward the caves. "If Tamlen sees you out here, he'll flay my hide for leather!"

They back into the line of their brothers, gaining the advantage of their shields. The ground begins to shake as something very big comes their way. Most of the clan is now up in the hollow behind the falls, save Traleia, who is half-mad, trying to run back down the slippery rocks. "Traleia! What are you doing?" Finnariel shouts.

The thrumming of the ground gets more pronounced. "My sister! She's not up there!" Finnariel nods.

"I will find her. Go back!"

"What?" Rafflin screams in shock. "By the Creators, you stupid woman, you're pregnant! Get up there!" He shoves Finnariel hard, toward Traleia, and she stumbles against the rocks. Looking over her shoulder, she can see the biggest, scariest thing she has ever laid eyes on. It is three times the height of a man, and three times as broad, with slavering jaws, giant horns, and fists big around as tree trunks.

While Rafflin and the other warriors are distracted by the giant beast, Finnariel takes off running. The only place Caraje likes to hide is up underneath her aravel, in the hollow where the extra wheel and other tools are stashed. Finnariel is amazed at how many of these creatures are simply running onward, like a stampeding herd, ignoring what is not their goal. Some of the aravels are off their wheels, a couple are tipped over, but Traleia's is still standing.

Finnariel uses her momentum to carry her forward as she drops to the ground and slides between the wheels. She lies on her back, panting. "Caraje! Caraje, come out! Come out! I've got to get you up to the caves. The longer we wait, the less chance we have, so come on!" Finnariel knocks on the case, tugging on the edges. Finally, it pops open. A small face, smudged with dirt and freckles, peers out of the dark little crevice, blonde braids flopping out to dangle above Finnariel's chest. "Come out!"

The little girl scrambles out, falling to the dirt. Finnariel rolls to her side and says, "Okay, _da'len_, hold tightly to my back, and don't let go, no matter what, okay? Just tuck your head down and hold on. I'll try to get us there."

Finnariel hooks her boot into the edge of the wheel and slides herself out, rolls to her feet and puts her back to a tree, pressing the girl safely between herself and the wood. She is not reassured when she sees lightning bolts crackling through the air; a small patch of brush catches fire. Using the cover of nearby bushes and trees, Finnariel darts along, trying to keep her head down as the creatures stream past.

Caraje holds tightly to Finnariel's back, arms and legs clamped around shoulders and waist. She tries not to think about how uncomfortable it is to have the little girl's legs wrapped around her belly. Only twice are they threatened, and Finnariel thanks Mythal that she is able to dispatch them without hurting Caraje.

When she draws abreast of the pool and the waterfall, she runs out of cover. It's a long sprint from there to the hunters' line. The air smells of smoke and fouled blood. She can hear the arrows whistling down from overhead. She risks a look around the tree. Rafflin now stands with Airadan and Feredir, their three best warriors, defending the ascent to the caves. The body of the giant beast provides a bit of cover, and fortunately fell in such a way as to shunt off a good portion of the creatures running by. Finnariel puts her fingers to her lips and lets cry the sharp whistle of a finch. It doesn't carry very far, but Rafflin glances her way.

He shouts something to the others and they push forward, stringing out to give her a path. The archers above are making an enormous difference. She scurries up the rocks of the falls, dodging arrows, and once nearly getting burnt to a crisp by a flash of fire, but she makes it at last.

Traleia grabs Caraje from Finnariel's back and hugs her tightly, crying hysterically. The others are farther back within the caves, finding holes to hide in and ways to bed down. Lamplight shines out of most of the hollows. "Keeper," Finnariel cries as Marethari moves from one passage to another. "Our archers are swift and sure, but they will run out of arrows; my brothers are strong and brave, but their energy will flag. We must find a way to bring them in!" Her hands flex against her thighs, itching for the blades that will help her slaughter a path to her husband.

"You are no longer a warrior, and must stay here, _da'len_, we cannot risk-"

"I _am_ a warrior!" she growls. "None of this..." She waves a hand around to encompass the entire clan and all the caves, "...will mean _anything_ to me if he dies out there!" She flings her arm to the side, pointing emphatically back down the path toward the forest. She can hear the panic rising in her voice, but she squashes it down. "I _know_ they need my blades." She turns to go back out, but strong arms encircle her waist, pulling her backward. She squirms and catches a glimpse of the face behind her. "Let me go, Pol!"

His voice is resigned. "Keeper told me to keep you here, Finnariel, so please don't hurt me, because I know you can." She slumps and sighs.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Pol."

"Er, good, because they've always told me that you're one of our more fearsome warriors, so I really don't want to find out." She smiles at that, and he relaxes his grip. She turns toward him and gives him a soft peck on the cheek. He colours and she leans up to whisper in his ear.

"Sorry about this." He starts back, confused, and she shoves her shoulder against his, sweeping her foot to the side and knocking him on his ass. There are exclamations as she grabs up a spare shield and trips down the rocks.

The warriors _are_ flagging. More have come in, and there are now five others down there with Rafflin, but the horde is swelling, still, and the archers cannot get down. Many of the trees in the way of the running monsters are showing signs of wear, like a rough storm passing by, and some are leaning at alarming angles. Two more hunters stagger into the line and join their brothers, but there are still not enough.

She tilts her head back and whistles again, her finch cry. She joins the group of hunters, tossing the shield in her hand to one of the men who has lost his. They make room for her as she adds her blades to the mix. She stands shoulder-to-shoulder between Rafflin and Airadan. "How do we get the archers down?" she shouts, the sounds of the horde so loud, they can barely hear each other.

"Stubborn!" Airadan shouts, grinning. He throws his shield in front of her and slices through one of the monsters.

"Warrior!" Finnariel replies, returning the grin. She tucks down and rolls, slicing the legs out from under another.

"I'm not taking his wrath for you!" Rafflin says, then pauses to bash down and push back a couple of the monsters.

Airadan laughs. "You're on your own there, sister!" He darts forward to strike the head off of another.

Rafflin grimaces. "Squads. Four at a time. You stay here." He lunges forward, skewering one through the hip; arrows drop it before he can withdraw his blade.

"Lucky they're not that interested in us." Airadan comments. It's true... so many, they could have been overwhelmed very easily, and yet the continue, many of them looking determined, eyes fixed on a distant point.

Rafflin rotates the men out, fetching the archers in. Finnariel falls silent as her arms become very tired, far more quickly than she wants to admit, and she grits her teeth, willing herself to continue against the onslaught. _Sweep, parry, thrust-thrust-thrust._ It seems as though the only creatures who notice them are those who are passing them closely.

Slowly, the archers come in, the farthest-flung first. _Jump, twist-and-strike, thrust-thrust-thrust, dodge._ As the squads return, some of the exhausted archers pass off their remaining arrows to the others; those who are still able to draw take higher ground on the rocks. Finnariel is lost in the haze of battle: the mechanical rising and falling of the blades, the gouts of black blood, heads rolling into the stampede, bodies falling at her feet, dancing across the uneven ground. _Slice, sweep, roll, strike, thrust-thrust-thrust, dodge. _The rhythm unending, battle infinite, a bloody eternity.

Dimly, she registers the return of another squad, and she closes ranks with her brothers as they give the archers time to unload and arrange themselves. _Sweep, duck, thrust-thrust-thrust, slice, parry, jump, circle, twist-and-strike._

Airadan squeezes in on her from the side, pushing her back. Her ears are ringing, and she cannot hear what he is shouting at her. Hands seize her at the elbows, pulling her back behind the line, and her brothers close the gap. As soon as her arms stop moving, she loses her grip on her blades and they fall to the ground. A pair of arms encircle her waist, dragging her further out of the battle and toward the rocks.

The archers arrayed upon them pull her up by turns, the warrior pushing her from behind. Slowly, the rush of the waterfall fades into her hearing, a tiny susurration. Hands turn her by the shoulders, and Tamlen is there, has been the one who pulled her out of the battle and pushed her back up the rocks.

He looks furious, and she can tell that he is yelling at her, but she can only hear the faint tones of his voice, cannot make any sense of the words. She can tell by the look on his face that she should be upset, and if she could hear what he was saying, it would probably make her cry. She isn't reacting the way he expects, and she sees a thread of worry wind its way into his expression.

She shakes her head, and he takes her by the shoulders, his eyes full of pain and fear, and gives her a gentle shake, still talking. She aches to reassure him, but she's not exactly sure what he wants from her, so she reaches up, runs her hand through his hair. His face crumples and he falls to his knees, wraps his arms around her waist and presses his cheek to her belly. Her hands float down to stroke his hair, and she can feel a tear roll down through the filth on her face. More archers filter in. Their brothers and sisters clap them on the shoulders as they pass, silent camaraderie.

Finnariel sinks down in front of Tamlen, and puts her arms around his shoulders. Her hearing is slowly returning; she still can't make sense of people's voices, but she sees him talking to some of the returning archers. She can't tell how loud her voice would be if she tried to talk, so she presses her cheek to his and whispers in his ear. "I couldn't stay here, safe and useless, knowing you were out there, knowing how few of us there are. You were my brother amongst the hunters before ever you were my love. Bonding hasn't changed that."

He clutches her to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and he shakes his head. She can feel his lips moving against her ear, and she whispers, "I'm still deaf from battle, _lethallin_." He pulls back and runs his hand over her hair, presses his forehead to hers.

The rest of the warriors return, until only a few archers remain at the top of the path to pick off any creatures too brave or stupid to keep on running to wherever they're headed. Tamlen stands, taking her by the hand as the distant hubbub of her clan begin to resolve into individual tones. He pulls her with him to the small cave where a finger of the river sank beneath the cliff face.

Her arms are leaden as she struggles out of her shirt, boots, and breeches. The water is icy cold, making her bones ache at the first touch. By the time she has washed the blood from her face, arms, and hair, the rush of battle has worn off and she is shaking with the cold. She realizes how disgusting her clothes became once they had been covered in the strange blood of the creatures; once the abhorrent stink is off of her, it is stomach churning when she picks up her discarded clothing. Tamlen appears behind her and wraps her in a blanket, and she leaves her clothes behind.

They bed down in a small hollow to one side of the main caves, where someone gave them a mat and another blanket. He pulls her down beside him, tucks her into the curl of his body, and wraps his arms around her, as though the only way to keep her from disappearing is to hold to her tightly. He kisses her neck and she shivers, grateful for the warmth of him.

Her ears pop as his hand splays across the growing curve of her belly, and suddenly she can hear again. He is humming softly under his breath, a tune she only catches in the middle, but she recognizes it; Ashalle used to sing it to her sometimes, when she was small.

Tamlen remembers her father's lullaby. Her heart twists, and she laces her fingers through his. _Don't worry, baby... We bend, but never break; we are stronger together, the three of us._ As she is drifting off, a tiny little flutter tickles the inside of her skin, just under his palm, and she smiles.


	7. Constant Craving

Finnariel sits up, groaning. The babe is kicking again, and sleeping on the floor of the caves has done nothing for her aching back. She struggles to her feet in the pre-dawn light and walks back and forth, carrying her swollen belly in both hands. She's been dreaming of apples again. Her bed has been cold without Tamlen, and she has been getting very little sleep without him.

Since the monsters invaded a few cycles ago, food has been beyond scarce. The entire clan is on the verge of starving. All their dried food stores will be gone within a day. It's been over a cycle since any of the hunters found anything except birds to bring in. She paces and paces, trying very hard not to think about her forbidden fruit.

"There are no apples," she mumbles to the babe. "Stop asking for them. We shall go and have some water," she decides, pacing into the water chamber. She pulls down the hanging cup and catches a measure from the fall. The cold water fills her stomach, but does nothing for the hollow feeling of hunger. The baby kicks and rolls irritably, and she moans quietly as its toes dig into her ribcage.

"I know, _da'len_, I know. We are very hungry. Perhaps, if we are very, very lucky, your papa will come home today with a rabbit. You will like rabbits, my darling. Your papa is very good at catching them, when he can find them. When you are bigger, I will teach you about hunting, and your papa can show you how to pull and tan the skins..." she talks absently, massaging the tight muscles on the outside edges of her stomach and pacing back and forth in front of the falls. The clan has taken to calling it "the window" because, when the sun is right, one can see right through a small portion of the falling river.

Her stomach growls and she takes a deep breath. It is early, yet, but she cannot wait. She pulls her cup of rations out and sits down on her pallet, munching on her day's allotment of nuts, dried berries, and bits of jerky. It is barely adequate, and it does not fill. Soon, her hips begin to ache, and she stands again, pacing.

It has been an entire phase since Tamlen left with Rafflin and Airadan to look for food. The Keeper, and the whole clan, for that matter, desperately hopes that there will be something farther afield. Today is the day they are meant to return, and Finnariel is restless. She talks to the baby constantly, rocking back and forth, trying to take her mind off the gnawing hunger. And apples. Apples so sweet, she can almost taste them, feel the juice across her tongue.

The sun has fully risen and stands two fingers above the horizon when Galeina, their eldest of elders, emerges from her alcove and sees Finnariel pacing. She smiles. "It will not be long now, _da'len_," she murmurs. "You are growing heavy. Soon the babe will come. Another cycle, perhaps two. No more than that." She smiles and holds out her hands in invitation; Finnariel obligingly lets the _hahren_ rub at her belly. The baby obediently kicks for the older woman, and she looks up at Finnariel, her eyes alight with joy. "He is strong. He will be a great hunter, like his father, but he will have your fearless heart," she predicts.

"A boy, hm?" The elder nods, and Finnariel rubs at her lip, trying not to think of how and whether she will live long enough to give birth to him. "We could call him Fenarel," she muses, and the _hahren_ nods, approving.

"It is a good name, and a great honour you offer to your fallen brother." She pats Finnariel's hand, moving toward the chamber they have been using as their privy. Finnariel continues pacing as the sunlight grows warmer. She can feel the heat of it on her unbound hair. It has grown so long, so quickly, nearly to her waist now. When the sun lays three and a half fingers above the horizon, the window clears, so she stands in front of it and looks to the valley below through the distorted lens of the water.

A long, oddly moving figure crawls along the ground, its belly swinging back and forth, and Finnariel strains to make out what, exactly, is following the edge of the pool, when suddenly her tired eyes snap to focus. It is the hunters. They have returned.

With a _deer_.

She watches as they crouch down at the water's edge and begin to disassemble it. She cannot wait, and scrambles over the lip of the cave floor, down to the rocks below. Carefully picking her way, staring fixedly at the path before her, she makes it about a quarter of the way down before strong arms encircle her, and the familiar scent of her husband fills her senses. She sighs in relief, looking up at his face, and smiles brilliantly. "I missed you, _lethallan_," he says, simply, but the kiss he gives her belies his casual tone. She melts against him as his hand strays over her belly.

He pulls away at last, and grins at her. "We've been _very_ successful," he says. "I've got a few rabbits, and the deer you can see, and Airadan has found an entire basket full of herbs, tubers, mushrooms, all kinds of things. There is enough here to feed all of us well for a cycle or more."

"Rabbit," she breathes, her mouth immediately watering. "Oh, tell me you'll roast one, please?" He laughs.

"I suppose I could be persuaded, but only if you get back up there and off of these slippery rocks," he admonishes, and gives her a playful smack on the bottom as she turns to comply. She discovers that the climb is more of a struggle than she was expecting, and has to accept his help to make it all the way up to the top. She stands behind the window, breathing heavily and holding her stomach in her hands.

"That was much more difficult than it has any right to be," she puffs, feeling wobbly. Back in their niche, he unshoulders his heavy pack and drops it with obvious relief. He shrugs a few times, rubbing at his neck, then crouches down next to it.

"While we were out, we discovered an overturned wagon with merchant goods. I brought back something special." He pulls out several pieces of wood, and she realizes with a start that he has all the pieces necessary to assemble a cradle. He hands her a bundle, wrapped in soft white cloth, and kisses her again. "I must go clean the rabbits and help with the butchering of the deer. I will return soon," he promises. "There's a new blanket in there, too," he says, indicating his pack, as he stands.

She smiles up at him, so very grateful, and he runs his finger along her tattoo again before turning away. She unwraps the bundle and discovers that it is a small blanket, with half a dozen babies' tunics inside. Tears spring to her eyes, as happens so easily these days, and she clutches them to her chest. She folds them back up and re-wraps the bundle.

She can hear Rafflin speaking to Marethari in low tones as they pass by. "...safe as any other time, if we wish to reclaim our aravels. We encountered few..." His voice fades into the rush of the falls.

Finnariel rubs her stomach. "Do you hear that, _da'len_? Soon we will have our bed again; no more sleeping on the hard stone." Her hips begin to ache, and she struggles to her feet, pacing some more. Airadan's basket stands in the central area, and the women are busily dissecting the layers of herbs and vegetables.

"Ooh, leeks!" one of the women exclaims.

Finnariel smiles, looking around at the happy faces of her clan-mates, and notices how thin they have all gotten. She is proud of her brothers, that they provided so well, that hunger's edge will be blunted by their efforts. She rubs at her belly as the child turns again. Her eyes roam over the clan, and alight upon Caraje. The poor girl has become nothing but skin and bones lately. The girl turns, and Finnariel notices with something akin to horror that she is eating an apple.

Her fingers twitch.

_Finnariel grabs the apple out of the girl's hands and runs; hiding in a dark corner, she crouches over the rare fruit and licks at the leaking juices. Far in the background, she can hear Caraje bawling, and she does not care._

She shakes her head, realizing that she is staring at the girl. Her moment of avarice passes, and she breathes out. Desperate as she is, she is not going to steal from the hands of a child, no matter how tempting the notion might be. "Traleia, is there another apple in there?" she asks, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

"No, sorry; there was just enough for one each to the children." Finnariel's mouth goes dry, and she nods. She steals another, furtive glance at Caraje, then resolutely turns away. The smell of the apple lingers, and she flees from it, back to her little cot. She sits down, her back to the common area, covers her face with her hands, and weeps silently, irritated with herself both for nearly snatching food from a child and for being so easily brought to tears.

After a time, she leans against the wall and sniffles. She pulls out the blanket Tamlen brought back; it is soft as down, and she wraps it around herself. She falls asleep sitting up, and has cause to regret it when Tamlen returns. She moans, the stiffness in her hips and back suddenly screaming to life and stabbing her in several key places. She falls to her side, curling around her belly, and shakes. Tamlen rubs her back, and the cramping eases. "All right, _lethallan_?" he murmurs, and she nods.

"As much as I can be."

He hands her a bowl of stew and a chunk of fresh-made bread, and she realizes she's been asleep longer than she thought. "You found flour," she marvels, and he nods.

"There was a sack in the merchant's wagon. There were a lot of things I wanted to bring back, but not all of it would fit in my pack." He bites a chunk off of his bread and drags his pack over. He pulls out a few giant tunics. "Like this: I found some shemlen-sized tunics for you, since mine are getting too tight." He smiles. "Also, I thought, perhaps I might like to wear one of my own shirts." She laughs.

The tunics are beautiful. Three of them, all light blue, but each with a different embroidery around the collar. She immediately stands and pulls off Tamlen's tunic. His eyes widen as her belly comes into view and he puts his hands up to caress the roundness, gasping when the baby turns under his hands. He looks up at her, eyes shining. "Oh, _lethallan_, you have never been more beautiful," he breathes, and she blushes, biting her lip.

"You're biased," she teases, and he nods.

"I am, you're right."

She giggles. "Fortunate for me, then, that you do not realize what a hag I truly am," she remarks as she pulls one of the tunics over her head. It falls all the way past her knees, even with her belly pulling at it, and she smiles. He tugs her hand, pulling her back down to sit next to him, and they finish their food in contented silence.

At last, Finnariel sits back with a happy sigh, her belly full for the first time in nearly a cycle. Tamlen rummages around in his pack again, and pulls out a small, round package wrapped carefully in fur and tied with twine. "I've got one more present for you," he says, placing it in her hands.

She pulls the twine loose and the fur falls open to reveal one perfect, ripe, red apple. Her lips part, and she sighs with longing. "Oh, _Tamlen_," she breathes, her eyes wide. She looks up at him, more tears swimming in her eyes. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him passionately, revelling in the feeling of security she has when his arms are around her. "_Ma serannas, lethallin_," she whispers fiercely, pressing her face into his neck.

"_Ma emma lath_, Finnariel; anything for you," he says, kissing her temple. She looks up at him, and realizes how terribly gaunt he has become. She touches his face, disliking the hollowness of his cheek.

She sits up, looks at the apple, then back at him. Coming to a decision, she pulls out her knife and cuts the apple in half. "_Ma emma lath_, Tamlen," she echoes, placing one in his hand. "Your happiness is also mine."


	8. Vir Assan

_Warning: there is some death in this one, but I promise it's not our protagonists._

Finnariel wakes just before dawn, startled out of sleep by a _very_ inappropriate dream about Airadan, of all people. She tugs Tamlen's arm around her more tightly, feeling guilty, and not understanding why she keeps having dreams like this. Last night it was Rafflin. The night before that, it was Junar, who has been gone for over a year. She is definitely _not_ attracted to _any_ of these men. She sighs as the baby turns slowly, and rolls out of their bed, waddling across the aravel that she barely fits inside of, now. Tamlen, having grown used to her nocturnal wandering, barely stirs.

Three days ago, she was standing outside Ashalle's aravel, trading recipes, when the baby suddenly fell downwards, bringing Finnariel to her knees. Marethari smiled when she checked the shape of her belly, and said, "The babe is ready to come into the world. It will not be long now: just a matter of days." Finnariel blanched.

Tamlen put the cradle together and the rest of the clan came by in the following few days to drop off all sorts of things for the baby; toys, blankets, nappy rags, an assortment of salves from Maren and Merrill. She knows she should eat, but she isn't feeling hungry. She grabs a handful of dried berries and wanders outside, restless. Her back is aching something fierce.

She wanders all the long way down to the camp's fire and circles it several times, earning her some concerned looks from the few elders who are gathered at this early hour. They begin to whisper amongst themselves, and one of them hobbles off. She is seized with a sudden longing to be next to Tamlen again, and starts off again on the trek toward her aravel. She only gets half-way there, however, before a terrible pain strikes her between the hips, and a flood drenches her lower half.

She cries out in surprise and staggers. She stumbles over to a tree and leans against it as another heavy pain sweeps over her. She moans. When the pain subsides, she continues up the path. Nothing matters now except getting home and finding Tamlen. She makes it a few dozen more steps before the next wave stops her, panting, in the middle of the road. She whimpers. The aravel seems so impossibly far away.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Airadan is far afield when he sees the first of them. It doesn't make any sense to his eyes, this heavy, shambling movement. Then he realizes that it is not creatures, but the trees themselves that are moving, and they are heading for the camp. He whistles loudly, raising the alarm, and then sprints toward camp. He can hear the message relayed around the forest, and his brothers join him, one by one, as they run back to the clan.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

She makes it to the edge of the clearing, within sight of home, before the spasms get so bad that she sinks to her hands and knees. She cries out, a growl of agony through her teeth. A few moments later, she looks up to see Tamlen running toward her, and she tries to smile, so very relieved. He gets his arms under hers and hauls her to her feet. She leans on him, stopping every couple dozen steps to cling tightly, whimpering through another wave of pain.

He walks her out to the meadow where they had their bonding. By the time they get there, the pains are coming very close together, and she is keening almost constantly. Marethari and several of the other elder women have been industriously preparing a place for her. A heavy, coarsely woven brown rug lays against the ground, one of the women spreading an old blanket over the top. Others are hastily finishing tying lines of a pavilion and hanging cloths around the sides for privacy.

Marethari hurries up to them. She tries to take Finnariel's arm, but she snarls, clinging closer to Tamlen. The keeper sighs. She directs Finnariel to sit in the centre of the mat, and Tamlen to crouch behind her, cradling her back against his chest. She writhes, and Marethari gets her to pull her knees up.

Merrill ducks her head in and whispers to the Keeper; Marethari exits the tent a moment later.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Keeper," Airadan says, breathlessly, "The trees are _walking_, and they're coming toward the camp. I've called in everyone I can, but we haven't got much time." She nods once, sharply.

"Send everyone back up the falls, just in case. We cannot move Tamlen and Finnariel, so we will have to defend this clearing. Where is Rafflin?"

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Grandmother Galeina takes over and sits before them, pushing Finnariel's tunic up over her hips. "Get your feet under you and lean forward. Tamlen, put your knees under her hips and take her hands." Galeina massages the flexing belly, as the burgeoning mother moans piteously. Finnariel laces her fingers through Tamlen's, and is immediately grateful as the next pain overwhelms her. She grits her teeth over a scream, throwing her head back. "Don't let her lean back," Galeina urges, so Tamlen pushes forward against Finnariel's arching.

She pants, growing less and less able to grit through the pains as they come closer and closer together. She begins to make little screaming sounds which grow louder and longer. She closes her eyes, clinging desperately to Tamlen, lost to the waves of pain and the quiet encouragement of the _hahren_.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Rafflin builds up the central fire with as much wood and tinder as he can get his hands on, laying torches around the perimeter for easy retrieval. The dragging rustling of the shambling trees grows louder as they close on the camp. All the scouts' reports indicate that they are surrounded. He can hear Airadan's voice urging the clan up the rocks, back to the caves, a moment before Marethari reaches him.

"We're surrounded, Keeper," he says, shortly.

"We defend the clearing," she says, pointing. "Everyone else will be safe enough up in the caves." She turns to head back, and he catches her hand.

"Keeper, will you not be joining the rest of the clan?"

She looks at him over her shoulder, and he drops her hand. "No. I must be there to put them back to sleep," she says, cryptically.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Tamlen leans against Finnariel as she struggles to birth their child, awed by the ripple of her muscles, like heavy shivering. Her backwards thrashing is so powerful, he is amazed at how much effort it takes for him to keep her upright.

He bows his head over her shoulder, and she turns her face, pressing her cheek against his. "No," she whimpers, a moment before another spasm rises up and rocks her. "Oh gods, Tamlen," she moans, "talk to me, talk to me," she begs. He presses his lips to her ear and begins to whisper.

"_Amongst the Dalish, there were born two children, two years apart, with strength and spirit to match each other well. _

_When he was ten and she was eight, he was falling out of a tree, dangling by his hands, unable to pull himself up, his feet swinging in the air. She stood beneath, insisting she could catch him, even though it was a long drop. So he let go, and she did catch him, but his weight bore them both to the ground, knocking the wind from her. However, she also prevented him from breaking his leg. She stood up and dusted herself off, like he hadn't just almost broken her ribs. She grinned hugely and said, 'Told ya.' That was when he decided she was braver than him._

_She was twelve, singing to herself and dancing in the middle of a field of wild flowers. She had woven a crown that was shedding flowers down her tresses, her face to the sun, the most beautiful, peaceful smile upon her face. He had been watching her from the bushes, his bow forgotten over his shoulder. Her voice was so sweet, so ethereal. He realized with a pang that he wanted to kiss her."_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The people stream up the rocks again, Merrill behind them shouting orders. Airadan stands by the fire with the archers, wrapping arrowheads in pitched strips of cloth so that they can be set ablaze. Pol distributes fire-pots to the archers, each one already filled with moss. Nearby, Rafflin and the other warriors who will be on the ground strap themselves into their armour.

"There's no time to build a firebreak," Rafflin mutters.

Airadan sighs, shaking his head. "I know. The scouts are filling every barrel we can empty, but it may not be enough. We will have to be careful; it is a terrible risk." The archers begin peeling away as they each gain six cloth-tipped arrows.

The archers spread out, calling to each other in hunters' speak as they move out to scale trees around the perimeter of the meadow. The hunters pitch their blades, before each of them takes up a torch. The shambling sound grows louder. They scatter, running into the woods toward the clearing.

Marethari stands outside the birthing tent, watching the forest tensely. Merrill appears at her side. "Keeper, all the clan are up at the falls. I can help bring water-" but the Keeper stills her with a look.

"No. Go up to the falls with the rest of the clan." Merrill looks hurt, and affronted, but covers it smoothly.

"_Ma nuvenin, hahren_," she says, if a trifle stiffly. Marethari's face softens, and she touches her apprentice's cheek.

"Do not be upset. I know you are capable and strong, and I am not sending you away because I think anything otherwise. Our people need you to be there with them, so they will not be afraid." In a rare display of affection, she hugs her apprentice. "Now, go." Merrill nods, and turns away.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_On a balmy afternoon in fall, when she was fifteen, he was chasing a rabbit when he stumbled into the meadow where she was standing in front of a tangle of blackberries, her lips and fingertips stained red. She smiled impishly and ran from him when he thought he might actually try to kiss her, her hair flashing in the sun._

_The following spring, she was on the cusp of sixteen, running through the forest with the hunters, intent upon proving herself fast enough, worthy enough, to be allowed amongst them. Her long legs flashed between the trees, face confident, determined, every inch the warrior. The only one she couldn't outrun was him, but he could feel himself tiring, so he launched himself at her, catching her around the waist, and they tumbled to the ground upon a bed of moss. She was laughing breathlessly. 'Caught you,' he said, for the first time. She looked up at him, her breast heaving with laughter and lost breath, her lips lush and full, so beautiful, and his heart swelled as he admitted to himself that he was in love with her._

_A week after he turned twenty, when he had just healed from the vallaslin, they stole away from the camp together with a bottle of honey wine, and she pulled him through the forest up to the top of a hard-to-reach bluff to watch a star-shower; their first location in what would become their game of 'places'. She leaned on his shoulder, and he realized that the scent of rosemary would never mean the same thing to him again."_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finch calls go up from all around, arrows soon whistle through the air, blazing trails of fire. Some fall, some do not, but there are far too many to continue on into the clearing. Scouts and archers scramble down behind the advancing line, carrying barrels to douse the flaming wreckage.

The warriors rush forward, and begin hacking at them, but the trees plunge some of their branches into the ground, sending up roots to imprison and squeeze the life out of them. They quickly change tactics, organizing into troupes of three, two working to free the third if any of them got caught. Three was enough to distract one, but there are not enough warriors to surround all of the trees. Too many are getting through.

Marethari kneels on the ground, watching the encroaching forest carefully as the warriors battle desperately against the onslaught.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_He came across her, crouched, motionless, on a flat rock in the middle of the river, when she was nineteen. She was watching the water intently, and then was suddenly in motion, darting forward, her hands plunging into the water, quick as a snake. He watched her in admiration as she caught a fish with her bare hands; she whooped with laughter as she pulled it onto the rock and held it down. He had never seen anyone with hands so quick as hers._

_She chose him to hold her down during her own vallaslin, on her twentieth birthday. She didn't trust anyone else to be able to talk her through it, to hold her steady enough, she said. Though her fingers dug into his arms, he watched her bravery with awe as the needles bit into her eyelids, and she did not flinch. Seeing her strength and resolve, he was hopelessly lost, and he knew then, at that moment, he would never bond with anyone else, even if she wouldn't have him."_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The warriors battle valiantly on. Too many are falling. They are losing ground rapidly, and lives are being sacrificed at too high a rate. Rafflin falls back as the circle grows smaller, gathering in the last of their forces for one final push. Many of the trees have fallen to their flaming blades, but there are still enough to overrun the camp and kill them all.

The archers spring the final trap, shooting lines across the paths of the trees, tangling their legs and halting their progress for a short time, enough to let the warriors attack, to let them halve the number of attacking monsters, but it is still not enough, never enough.

Marethari puts her hands to the ground and concentrates.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_In his mind, he was her husband after that, though the idea of love had never yet crossed her thoughts. He brought her his kills, fixed things when they broke, found her the things she needed, and sometimes surprised her with those few, simple things she only wished for. _

_And then, one day, two years ago, when she was twenty-two, he saw her face turn, as his hand brushed against hers, and the look in her eye had changed, at last. That was when he began to work with Ilen._

_He loved her even more when he gave her the journal, and realized that she was prepared to do anything for him, just to see him happy, even if it meant letting him go. He finally claimed the kiss that had been trembling upon her lips, waiting for him, as he had been waiting for her."_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Airadan whistles, pulling the archers back into line to begin the last push from behind. The trees turn, tangling themselves further in the lines, giving the warriors one more chance to attack. There is fire everywhere. The scouts cannot keep up with the rate that it spreads, after the hot summer they have had, and it is beginning to hurt just as much as help, as the smoke billows and blankets the forest.

Marethari watches, waits until she can see all of them, every one of the shambling trees. She waits until she is certain that she has all of them in the meadow at once. Then she digs her fingers into the earth and begins to chant.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_Still, he didn't allow himself to touch her, though his desire was a powerful thing. Not until the night of their bonding, when he took her into the aravel that he had finished with his own hands, when he told her of all the dreams he had for the life they would share. He took her in his arms, at last, and as she sighed his name, he claimed her for his own, and gave himself to her completely._

_Soon after that, one day while they were hunting, he was poisoned by spiders to big to imagine. Still, his brave warrior wife carried him back home again, without thought for herself, dragging both of them back to camp, half-dead. When he woke to see her pale face in the moonlight, he shed his first tear for her, that she would break herself just to save him._

_He shed his second tear the day he held her in his arms, bruised but never broken, after killing the shemlen who had dared to touch her, when she told him of the babe she bore, his child, their child."_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

She can feel the corruption in her bones, the darkness that coils along her skin and makes it crawl with filth. She pushes against that darkness, driving it out, rejecting it. She pulls in sunlight and air, pressing healing and peace. She hums a lullaby, and the earth sighs with the song, rippling outward from her roots. The corruption fades upward, into the sky, gathering itself into the rising smoke from the wounds where the burning is hurting her.

The corruption mingles with the smoke, pulling water from the air and raining down onto her skin, cooling the fires and soothing her. She spreads out and into the corrupted plants, cleansing them, humming her lullaby into their leaves. They shiver and sigh, growing silent as they listen, growing peaceful, going to sleep.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Tamlen kisses her neck, and she whines, high pitched and thready. "What happened, what happened next?" she sobs.

"I can see the head; push!" Galeina urges.

"Tamlen!" she cries, and he presses his lips to her ear again, bracing her, holding her tightly.

"_He crouched in the tent behind her, holding her in his arms, feeling her tremble and shake as she struggled to bring that child into the world; his beautiful, proud, brave, and strong Dalish wife, his reason for breathing, his reason for being-"_

Finnariel screams, pushing backward against him so hard he almost falters, her hands gripping his tightly enough that all their fingers turn white. Her stomach flexes tremendously, and there is a heavy, wet sound; she sags, suddenly, and Galeina is quickly wiping the face of a tiny little thing, covered in blood. As the rag scrapes across its nose, it lets out a strong squall, and Finnariel sobs.

"A boy!" Galeina says, smiling. She wraps the babe in a blanket. "Quickly, Tamlen, her shift," she says, gesturing for him to pull it up. Finnariel is too weak to protest, and Galeina lays the babe upon her breast, showing her how to let him latch on.

"Now, Tamlen," the _hahren_ says brusquely, still moving quickly. She hands him a length of sinew and directs him to tie off the cord, then hands him a small, curved knife. "Cut; just here." She smiles in encouragement as he looks at her a little wildly. He cuts through the thick rope, surprised at how much strength it actually takes to do so cleanly.

While the newly-crowned parents are staring down adoringly at their little bundle, Galeina catches the afterbirth and cleans things up.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Rafflin falls to the ground as the roots that were crushing and imprisoning him suddenly disappear. He can hear many of his brothers having the same experience. The sounds of battle have been instantly silenced, replaced by the moaning of the fallen. He drags himself to his feet, looking around.

Airadan staggers toward him, a huge gash in the side of his armour. He leans against a tree, wrapping his arms around his stomach. "We did it, brother; they have stopped." Seized by a coughing fit, Airadan spits out a mouthful of blood. "Mm. That's not good," he says, a moment before he falls. Rafflin stumbles over to him, falling to his knees, and rolls the archer over, but it is too late. Airadan clutches his arm. "Willow," he says, raising trembling hand to Rafflin's cheek. "_Abelas, lethallin_," he whispers. Rafflin catches his hand as it falls, pressing a final kiss to his palm. He closes Airadan's eyes and bows his head, allowing himself just this one moment of grief.

Rafflin puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles, short and sharp, his ribs protesting any deeper breath. As people arrive, he puts them in pairs, instructing them to begin picking up the fallen and taking them down to the camp, separating them into those who can be saved and those who are beyond it. Airadan he refuses to let anyone touch.

"I will carry him myself," he tells them. Despite his broken rib, he picks up his fallen lover and carries him back to camp, to be placed amongst all the others.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Galeina is shocked when she exits the birthing tent. The clearing is gone, now filled with trees. The warriors and archers of the clan silently walk by, carrying the bodies of their brothers and sisters, heading for the main camp. She circles the tent, looking up in awe.

Recalling herself, she shakes her head and makes her way over to Tamlen and Finnariel's aravel, retrieving a couple of blankets, some baby supplies, and a change of clothes for both of them. When she returns, she finds Tamlen stretched out on his back with Finnariel and the baby asleep on his chest. She tucks a blanket around them.

"She'll need rest now, but when she wakes, you must carry her to your bed. Do not let her walk until tomorrow." She whispers several more instructions as to the care and feeding of the new mother over the next few days, then leaves the tent once more.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Merrill tends to the wounded as the clan comes back down from the waterfall again. The camp is heavy with the sound of weeping, as families reclaim their loved ones and begin the process of winding them for their burials. It takes her many hours to tend to all of them, but she is proud that, in the end, none succumbed to their injuries. She leaves their care in Maren's hands, heading to the river to wash the blood away. Rafflin joins her there, for much the same reason. His face is a mask of sorrow.

She reaches out to touch his shoulder, a question on her face. It is answered by the hollowness and despair in his eyes when he drags them up to meet her gaze, and she covers her mouth with her hand. In the next moment, she hugs him. A tension rises up in him, and, though he is clearly thankful for her sympathy, he gently pushes her away. "I can't. There is not time for it yet. I must still bury him and plant his tree." She nods.

"Have you seen the Keeper?" Rafflin shakes his head.

"No. The last time I saw her, she was with you, outside the birthing tent. I did not see her leave that place."

Merrill begins to ask the other warriors and archers who are still standing, but they all say the same thing. No one has seen her since the battle began. She heads up to the tent, carrying a few things to give to Finnariel, and is confused, at first, as to whether she has become lost, as she cannot find the clearing. But then she sees the tent, nestled in a perfect ring of grass. A birch tree stands in the place where she last saw the Keeper. It is eerily shaped like a woman, her head thrown back, arms of twisted branches, feet rooted to the ground. The Keeper's amulet lies broken on the ground at the foot of the tree, amidst the tatters of the robe she had worn.

"_I know you are capable and strong... Our people need you... so they will not be afraid..."_ The Keeper's words echo in her mind, and she falls to her knees, hugging the birch around the ankles.

"I will make you proud, _mamae_," she whispers.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The fallen warriors are buried in a ring around the former clearing, oak saplings planted beneath to turn it into a sacred grove that will last as long as the lives of their ancestors. All, that is, except for Airadan.

Rafflin retreats from the singing and the prayers, his lover's body in his arms. He sets off into the forest, taking the long path that leads up to the top of the falls. There, he buries the archer, and plants a willow tree. He speaks the prayer and sings the song, alone.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Too much sorrow has befallen us in this place," Keeper Merrill says, by way of explanation. The clan packs up their belongings; now shrunk by nearly a third, the process takes longer. Several aravels stand empty. Without anyone to move them, they must be abandoned. The warriors, led by Rafflin, push them into the former clearing, circling them evenly around the tree that was once Marethari.

Finnariel looks over her shoulder at the falls, this place that has been the site of so much sorrow, and so much joy. She looks down at little Fenarel, sleeping peacefully in the sling against her breast, and smiles. Tamlen puts his arm around her, lifting both of them up and onto the bench of their aravel. He climbs up next to her, taking the reins of the halla. She smiles at him, and her heart skips a beat when he returns it, still able to make her blush, even after all this.

"Where are we going?" she asks, beginning to feel sleepy again as the aravel rocks along down the path the forest makes for them.

"East, to the ocean."

"Hmm... fewer rabbits, more fish," she muses, her eyelids growing heavy. She leans back, resting her head against the cushion. "Doesn't matter where we go, as long as I'm with you," she murmurs, her heart in her throat. "_Ma emma lath_, Tamlen."

"_Ma emma lath_, Finnariel," he responds, but she has already fallen asleep.

.


	9. Epilogue: The Ocean's Pull

Finnariel stands on a small mound of earth at the edge of the ocean, looking out across the waves toward the clouds on the horizon. The breeze catches a tendril of her hair, blowing it across her face, and she pulls it aside. A child shrieks, and then "_Mamae! Mamae!_"

Fenarel comes crashing through the brush in a blind panic. Breathlessly, he says, "_Mamae!_ A monster!" His eyes are wide as he flings his little hand out to point behind him.

She gasps, theatrically, throwing up her spread hands in front of her face. "Oh _no_! What _kind_ of monster, _da'len_?" A low growl sounds from the tall patch of ocean grass. From her vantage point, standing, she can see Tamlen crawling through the grass, a crown of it woven on his head, the blades sticking up straight to blend in with the rest of it.

"A _grass_ monster!" he gasps.

"Uh oh!" she says, "Better run! Here it comes!"

Tamlen growls again, and Fen shrieks, running around her in a circle before dashing off into the grass again. He heads straight for Tamlen, who grabs him and pretends to eat his belly. Fen squeals with laughter, flailing wildly. Tamlen sets him down on his feet and he dashes off again. "You can't get me, grass monster!" he crows, and Finnariel laughs as Tamlen begins to stalk the boy again. After another thorough pouncing, Fenarel declares himself done with "grass monster"; he pelts down the hill and off toward the ocean.

Tamlen walks with her down to the water's edge, holding her hand. She leans her head on his shoulder as they watch Fen splash in the water, running away from the breakers and hopping over the lines of the incoming waves. The summer sun slowly drops toward the horizon, painting the sky in fiery orange, brilliant fuchsia and shadowy indigo.

He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in front of him and resting his chin on her shoulder. "The elders are speaking of moving camp again."

She looks out over the waves. "Do you suppose they will?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "Not yet. Merrill doesn't want to, but the new town the shemlen are building has got them spooked."

"But that's more than five miles away," she protests.

"Even so, if we don't do it before autumn, I would be surprised."

Fenarel trips over a shell and falls into the water, laughing. In the next moment, he is crouching next to it, busily trying to extract it from the sand.

"I don't want to leave this place," Finnariel says, wistfully. "It hasn't been long enough."

He chuckles under his breath. "It's been four years, _lethallan_. We nearly have a permanent city here. It's time. Fen hasn't travelled since he was a baby; he doesn't even know how the aravels move."

She sighs and laces her fingers through his. "I know. I have just loved the ocean so much. And... if we wait too long... travelling isn't going to be easy on me," she says, sliding his hand down. His palm comes to rest over a hardness behind her stomach, not quite round enough yet to show, but unmistakable.

He gasps. "Again? Again!" He tightens his arms around her, pulling her into his chest and kissing her neck. "_Again_... Mmm... _Emm'asha_," he growls amorously, his voice vibrating along her skin. She shivers and blushes.

"I'll _always_ be your girl," she replies, nuzzling into his cheek. She sighs happily, and they stand there a few moments in silence, listening to the waves and watching the sunset. Then she murmurs, "Grandmother Galeina says it's the pull of the ocean, that we've been here long enough for it to happen for us now. She's right. I can feel it. There are others, too... four of us so far, but they haven't spoken of it yet. Paivel says that, once, before the Tevinters, we lived by the sea, and had many children, throughout all our long lives, instead of just one or two. "

"Two," he whispers, watching Fenarel collect more shells to add to a pile he's made on the wet sand.

She stills, and then, with just the tiniest amount of parental dread, she says, "Middle-of-the-night feedings."

"Filthy nappies," he says, making a face.

She laughs. "Teething," she reminds him, and he groans.

"But you know what's best, right _now_?"

"Hmm?"

"Remember last time? During those months... When you were suddenly more... flexible?" He hears her sharp intake of breath, and laughs darkly. He presses his lips to her ear. "Let's go put Fen to bed," he whispers, and she shivers, a wickedly shameless smile curving her lips.

"_Da'len_! Come on, bring your treasures, it's time to go home again," she calls. She casts a glance over her shoulder to see Tamlen, silhouetted against the sunset sky; the broadness of his shoulders, the look on his face and the desire in his eyes makes her heart flip. She giggles like a girl and, snapping up Fenarel, she bolts for the aravels.

Fen clings to her back, laughing hysterically, clutching a shell in his hand. She quickly shucks him, bending backward in front of the door, when they reach their aravel. Tamlen makes a run for her, and Fen laughs at them as they dash around the edges of their clearing a few times before Tamlen finally grabs her around the ribs; they spin around with their momentum and he pulls her down to land on him in the grass. "Caught you," he pants, her hair falling across his face.

She laughs breathlessly. "Every time, _lethallin_."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Fenarel is so exhausted from the days' activities, he falls asleep in his dinner, and Finnariel carries him to bed. Tamlen gathers up the remains of their meal and puts everything away. She returns outside, her face to the starlit sky. She stretches, raising her arms up and arching her back, rising up on her toes. Tamlen takes advantage of the situation to catch her about the hips, falling to his knees before her. She lets out her breath in a startled whoosh as his hands slide quickly up her tunic, baring her stomach to the night.

She buries her fingers in his hair as he kisses her belly, his breath washing across her skin, and she shivers. He rolls his eyes upward, and she sees all the things that she loves in him, all the things that overwhelmed her one day in a long-ago spring, at the simple brush of his hand. She adores his strength, his quiet pride, his sense of humour and the way he laughs, the callouses on his hands and the unconditional way he has always been there for her, steady as the earth itself. If she is braver than him, it is only because of his steady aim. If she is stronger than him, it is only because he showed her his steel. If she is faster than him, it is only so that he can catch her.

She pulls up her skirt and sinks down into his lap, her knees to either side of his hips. His hands slide up her ribs and toward her breast, but it is the kiss he goes for first. They are impatient, fumbling at each others' clothes, making protesting sounds of frustration with buttons and laces. Then there is a moment when they both realize there's nothing left in the way; he is so swift, he has to hold tightly to her hips and clap a hand over her mouth to muffle her. Her eyes flutter shut as he flexes beneath her, rocking her against his hips like the rolling of the ocean waves.

She clings to him, gathering up fistfuls of his shirt, and presses her face into his neck, trying to silence her voice. The same, intense attention to detail that allowed him to become a master at his crafts has been devoted to exploring her, as well; with every passing year, she becomes more and more easily undone by him, even when she tries to be the one in control of the situation.

He presses his lips to her ear, making her shiver. "_Ma'arlath, emm'asha. Uth na'viran emma vhenan, _Finnariel_._" Her heart skips a beat, and she whimpers as he kisses her neck.

"_Ma emma lath, ma emma lath..._" she murmurs, her voice high and frantic, trying to keep herself quiet. Then, his name, tumbling from her lips like scattering pearls, the name by which her life's course is directed. "Tamlen, Tamlen," she sighs, shuddering for him. She is helpless in his arms as she weakens, as her defences fall and she throws her head back, arching against him. He puts his hand over her mouth again, continuing for several long minutes; she shakes, collapsing against him and burying her face in his neck. As he finally relaxes and lays back against the ground, she curls against his chest, still quaking in the aftermath.

"This place has been good to us," she murmurs, after a time. She runs her fingers through his hair, twisting a strand around and around her finger

"Hmm," he rumbles, and she can feel the vibration in his chest, under her cheek. "_We_ have been good to us. We will take that wherever we go, _lethallan_; it will not stay behind, I promise you." She sighs, relieved, and he chuckles, running his fingers through her hair. "Don't you know by now? Nothing could ever come between us."

She nods, pressing her hand to his heart, feeling it beat beneath her palm. "Let's go to bed," he suggests. "There's a rock pressing into my shoulder." She laughs, clambering off of him and pulling him to his feet.

"We could sleep for just a little while..." she says, then frowns, feeling the tug of something it seems like she ought to remember. She shakes her head. Then, looking at Tamlen, she smiles again, contented and weary. They tip-toe into the aravel and crawl into their bed.

"I will have to expand our living space," he murmurs, his hands straying across her belly as he folds her in his arms.

She smiles. "A new project for a new place."

"A new place for a new life," he says, before he stills. She closes her eyes and snuggles down into his arms. She can hear them, her boys, their quiet breathing in counterpoint, and she smiles.

"_Vir adahlen_," she murmurs, closing her eyes.

_Tamlen's Elvish: "I love you, my girl. You alone hold the path to my heart, forever."_


End file.
